


The Fountain of Youth Series

by iiiionly (Tanis)



Series: The Fountain of Youth Series [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:35:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/iiiionly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2006 Staragate Fan Award:  Best Gen Series.  This series of stories is being re-edited for podcasting and will be posted as the podcasts go up.  To listen to the podcasts go here:<br/>http://iiiionly.com/sgpodcasts.html        </p>
<p>To DL, right click and *save target as* to listen on an MP3 player.  </p>
<p>These stories involve a partially aware, little Daniel who's been downsized by the Telchak device.  While the series is still a WIP, each story in the series is stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On a Wing & a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> FoY starts at the beginning of Season Eight and departs rapidly from canon as Daniel is downsized. This is partially aware Daniel, meaning he has some bleed-through memories of another life, but on the whole he is happily experiencing the childhood the universe stole from him the first time around. If you hate kidfic, please use your delete key here.

The Fountain of Youth Series

 

On a Wing & a Prayer

 

“I should get a 1-900 number and make a fortune with my psychic ability; I knew if we let him come down here again it would be a disaster.” Davis’ directions are precise, if not exactly clear, and yes, I’m mumbling. “From guard entrance, make the first left, then the first left again,” I read from the crumpled paper. 

The first left is a door, but there looks to be a hallway off to the left a few yards further down. I take the hallway left and look for another left-hand hall. It’s sweltering in here, must be at least a hundred degrees. Time to shed the jacket, adjust the ball cap and slide the dark glasses down the nose since I can’t see in this gloom. 

“When did I get this old?” I wonder aloud. “I need night vision goggles.” And have to hold the damn sheet nearly up to my shoulder to catch the minimal natural lighting filtering in through the small Quonset hut windows. “Not that this is my fault, Daniel; I was still telling you not to do this when I dropped you off at the airport.” Sweat trickles down my right temple. “Where was I? Take the second left and the third right.” The left foot moves forward of its own accord and I start counting – and muttering again. “One left. Wonder if the eyesight went with the hair? Two lefts. Annnnnnd we’re walking … one … two … three and right …” and have to look down at the paper again. “Ahhh …. Infirmary is the only set of double doors on the left.” 

It’s the moment of truth – and I’m not ready for it. My heart does a double bump and I can feel my pulse start to pound. 

“God, Daniel …” I stop, take a deep breath, and have to lean over before I hyperventilate. 

The internal thoughts are racing as wildly as my pulse. Get a grip, O’Neill. We do science fiction every day, every time we open the gate; why can’t you process this? 

What the hell? We’ll get it fixed. We’ve fixed everything else, right? For cryin’ out loud, there’s a teenage me running around; nothing to freak out over here. We can do this. 

Right. 

How? How the hell are we gonna fix this? 

The door swings forward and I step back hurriedly to avoid a broken nose. 

The grunt eyes me, obviously notes the colonel in my bearing, and steps back, holding the door open with a forearm. “Sorry, sir; didn’t realize there was someone on the other side.”

I stalk past with an inarticulate growl - into chaos. And I don’t mean Agent Maxwell Smart kind of chaos. This is good old fashioned pandemonium. The doors swing shut behind me.

A moment of appraisal resolves mayhem into an operation that – while not bearing the stamp of our Napoleonic power monger – is nonetheless efficient. A doctor is triaging rapidly, firing orders at nurses, orderlies and a number of SFs shuttling around portable x-rays, monitors … looks like oxygen … as gurney’s whip past bearing shrapnel torn bodies.

I have to stop a moment, lean against the wall, and close my eyes. Davis said I would find him here, but I don’t see him right off and the gory scenery is doing nothing to help settle my nerves. 

I told George not to show him the invitation; advised him to burn the damn thing so no trace of it remained on base for Daniel to snoop out. But did he listen to me? Of course not, because Dr. Jackson is a civilian consultant entitled to make his own decisions on things like this. 

Wave an artifact under Dr. Daniel Jackson’s nose and he forgets everything, including the fact he was kidnapped and tortured, not to mention damn near murdered when he was down here six months ago. Which I made sure to remind him of loudly and often, right up until I put him on the friggin’ plane. 

“You have got to snap out of this, O’Neill!” I mutter, taking another deep breath. I shove off the wall, hoping no one’s paying attention to the crazy old colonel talking to himself. 

The infirmary here is larger than ours. There are three rows of beds, with a wide aisle between each row. I find him in the very last bed on the far right of the room, removed as far as possible from the chaos, but not separate from it. 

What can he possibly be thinking of this whole mess? And why did I imagine we’d have some privacy for this?

I stop at the foot of the bed. 

He’s curled around a pillow like a little isopod; only a mop of sun-bleached hair and dirty, bare feet are visible. A too-large dress blue jacket disguises the curve of his back and covers him to his ankles - since he’s maybe three feet from head to toe suddenly. He was six feet tall and wearing a nicely-tailored suit when he left the SGC less than twenty-four hours ago. 

Intel on this op is sketchy at best, but if I’m figuring right, Daniel couldn’t have been here more than a couple of hours when this happened. 

Stop stalling. Glancing around, I make a note of the fact that I outrank everyone in here. Which doesn’t help the situation at all, it just means no one’s likely to challenge my acting like I belong here. I can’t help the sigh that escapes me as I lower the bed railing and perch gingerly on the edge. 

“Hey, Danny?” Palming the top of the small head, I lightly massage his temple. Guess I’m hoping the familiar touch might trigger some neuro-chemistry that will spark a memory. “Daniel?” 

Looking down I find a sliver of blue eye peeking at me assessingly over the side of the pillow. The sliver disappears and I feel a shudder run through the small body. 

“Hey buddy, I really need to talk to you. Do you feel well enough to sit up and talk for a minute?”

“My daddy told me not to talk to strangers.”

The pitch and register are higher and lighter than adult Daniel’s, but it is unmistakably Daniel, even muffled by the pillow he refuses to part with when I give it a reconnaissance tug. 

Hey, he wouldn’t speak to Major Davis, so maybe those neurotransmitters are actually working; maybe there is some left brain function that still recognizes me. Better get this right the first time, who knows if he’ll give me another shot at it. 

I slide my hand down to the nape of his neck and squeeze lightly. 

For a moment he’s utterly still, then the sliver of blue eye appears again, still wary, but now there’s a hint of curiosity too. 

Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. 

“Who are you?” he asks, as if he’s met far too many people already today. Which he probably has. “Why did you take me away from my mommy and daddy? Where are they?” The corner of the pillow is crumpled in one tiny hand, exposing a whole eye, the smooth curve of a child’s cheek, and the down-turned corner of lips thinned to a mutinous line. 

Jesus God Almighty! Mommy and Daddy? The sweat trickling down the back of my neck is suddenly ice cold. Davis said nothing about memory loss. 

Daniel is down here at the invitation of the Honduran government for the express purpose of helping them identify additional ancient artifacts uncovered at the dig near the site of Telchak’s underground temple. A dig he was slavering to run, despite the fact he’d been kidnapped, tortured, shot, and damn near murdered. Fortunately, their government wanted their own people to run it. Unfortunately, when their archeologists couldn’t do the job, they asked to borrow ours. 

From what we know, he was met at the airport and driven directly into Tegucigalpa where apparently he was met by a number of government officials. That Telchak device was top secret stuff, and the little cadre of sycophants who asked for Daniel’s help were sequestered for several hours on the top floor of one of their government buildings when our source says they all came boiling out of the conference room gabbling about the Fountain of Youth. All except Daniel that is; it seems no one remembered him for another hour or two. Davis was able to speak to the security guard who found him, but says he’s quite sure there was some deliberate misrepresentation by the interpreter, so he doesn’t think we have the whole story, or even the real story, of what went on in that room. 

There was apparently some question initially who Daniel even was, since no child had gone into that room. Always nice to know the government is on top of these things, though I suppose, since we’ve kept the news of the Stargate undercover for the last seven years, that’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, huh?

But I’m here to recover the property of the USAF, one Daniel Jackson, who until a few hours ago, was a civilian consultant to the United States Air Force. Not to worry about how the Honduran’s run their black ops. Though they could obviously use some help in that direction as well. 

However, the immediate priority is Daniel. So what do I tell him? Uh, Daniel, your parents have been dead for thirty years . . . And the thought hits like a mortal blow – my god! Does this mean he’s just lost 30 years of life experience, besides 30 years of height? 

What the hell have we done to him this time? It’s not enough that he’s been virusized, sarc’d and zatted a bazillion times, had alien entities in his head and goa’uld slobbering to turn him into a host … now this? 

Oy. 

Doc Frasier warned me we may have to ease into this slowly. 

Again, better get it right if I want to keep him talking. Dr. Jackson can be the most stubborn s.o.b on the face of this planet when he’s pissed about something. 

I’ve taken too long to answer; he’s eyeing me suspiciously. 

So I do what I do best. Hedge. “You’ve been in an accident, Daniel. You’re mom and dad aren’t here right now.”

“That’s not true!” He’s buying none of it. “My mom and dad don’t ever leave me. If I’d been in an accident they’d be right here with me! I want to see them right now! You better take me to them, ‘cause you’ll be in very big trouble if you’ve stolen me! They might have already called the police, mister. You better take me back to them right now!” 

Both eyes are visible now and big as saucers. His chest is heaving as though he’s run a marathon, but he refuses to blink and let the tears pooling in those saucers spill over. He widens his eyes in a futile attempt to hold them back, then knuckles them fiercely with the corner of the pillowcase. 

“I’m not scared of you!” he hitches out on a hiccupping sob. 

I close my eyes, squeeze the back of his neck again very gently and realize, despite all the drama, he’s edging closer toward me. Still, every muscle in the small body clenches as I pick him up and cradle him in my lap. 

“You must be pretty scared though, huh? Waking up in a strange place like this? With all these strange people, dressed in strange clothes. It’s okay, buddy.” 

He’s still trying valiantly to hold back the sobs. 

“It’s okay,” I soothe, running a hand through his hair as I press the small head against my chest. “You’re safe here until we can find your mom and dad. How ‘bout if you let me take care of you until we find them? Would that be okay?” I cuddle the stiff body close, rock gently, and keep up a steady stream of patter. “I know you don’t remember me, but I’ve known you for a long time. Does that count? Even though you don’t remember me? I know about your mom and dad, too; Claire and Melbourne Jackson? They’re archeologists aren’t they? Do you still live in Egypt, Danny? I’ve kind of lost track of how old you are. Let me think a minute . . . what else do I know about you? I know your birthday is July 8, right? And that you like . . . uhm . . . “ 

Oh, shit! How old is he? 

Camels; he has an old picture of himself on a camel, taken sometime after he went back to Egypt, probably in his late teens. 

“I’ll bet you like camels.”

“Camels are dirty,” he states emphatically, swiping at tears. “And they spit. My mom says they’re only useful for hauling supplies out to the digs.”

“But you like ‘em anyway, don’t you?” 

He’s not quite as stiff, but he’s still not sure he’s willing to let himself get comfortable with this. “Who are you? How come I don’t remember you if you know me?” He tilts his head up, just briefly, so I get a flash of eyes, then ducks it again, burrowing his cheek against my t-shirt to wipe away more tears.

“Ohhhh . . .” Thinking like this on my feet, especially keeping one step ahead of Daniel Jackson, has never been my strong suit. “I used to go to school with your dad.”

“You did?” The suspicion is back full force. “You look a lot older than my dad.” He sniffs and wipes his nose with the sleeve of the dress jacket. Hope it belongs to Major Davis; he, at least, might understand the snot.

“Yeah, well, I’m grey-haired for a reason and destined to be even greyer in the foreseeable future. Do you know what premature means?”

He narrows his eyes in concentration, relaxes a little more against me, and one finger sneaks into his mouth, strangely enough, the ring finger on his left hand. 

“It means . . .” he chews for a moment, contemplating, then sighs. “I don’t remember. What does pre-ma-ture mean?”

Biting back a smile, I kiss his hair. It’s an instinctive gesture. “It means, Daniel Jackson, I’m not old enough to have grey hair yet. It means the grey hair makes me look older than your dad, which I probably am, but not nearly as much older as it makes me look.”

“Oh,” he responds, pulling back to look me over again. “So then - you’re not as old as you look.”

“You got it.”

“How old are you?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to ask adults how old they are?”

“Yes,” he admits freely, “but she would say these are unusual cir - cir – cum . . .”

“Circumstances?” I offer.

“Yes, cir-cum-stances,” he repeats carefully, “and I should find out everything I can about you before I trust you.”

“Okay, that sounds reasonable to me. Let’s make a deal, I’ll tell you how old I am if you’ll tell me how old you are.”

“You go first,” he says, still watching me like a hawk.

I sigh loudly, as if very put upon, and shave a few years off my real age. “I’m thirty-five.” I know his parents were in their early 30's when they were killed in that museum accident. I tug at my probably disheveled hair. “Partly this is in the genes; do you know what genes are?”

“Yes. Genes are what determines whether I have blue eyes, like my dad’s, or blond hair like my mom’s.”

“Exactly. You’re pretty smart, huh? Partly, though, this . . .” I ruffle my own hair again, “comes from someone I know who keeps getting into trouble and scaring the pants off me. Mostly I’ve gone prematurely grey because of him.”

“Who?”

“His name just happens to be Daniel too. Isn’t that a coincidence? Do you know any other Daniels?”

“There’s a Daniel who’s Hungarian who’s working on our dig right now. He’s teaching me the Slavic languages.”

“Really? How old is he?”

“I don’t know. I never asked him.”

“Do you trust him?”

He gives me a slit-eyed look and knuckles away the last of the tears. “My dad does,” he says, insinuating oh so calculatedly that he understands the little dig. No question this is our Daniel. “

“I’m six, but I’ll be seven very soon.”

“Wow, six.” Okay, I’m sucking air. If they’d left him in that room any longer . . . not going there. Six is bad enough. 

“So you’ll be seven in - let’s see . . .” I hold up a hand and count on my fingers. “May, June, July. Oh, less than three months. Not long, huh?”

Daniel nods solemnly. “We’re going back to America when I’m eight, that’s only a little more than a year away.”

“Oh, yeah? Why when you’re eight? Why not now?”

“We’ve found a cover stone,” he imparts, with equal solemnity. “My dad says it’s just the beginning and we’ll have museums and private investors—” He stops to think for a second. “Uhm . . . clamoring,” he grins fleetingly. “Yes, clamoring for our exhibit. We’re going to pick a very ‘portant museum to set up our exhibit in and we’ll be able to go see it any time night or day, ‘cause they’ll probably give us the keys to the city and everything.”

“Mmmmm,” I nod agreement, “absolutely. The keys to the city and everything. That makes sense. It’s gonna take a year, you think, to uncover the rest of the exhibit. Are you looking forward to going to America?”

“I don’t know. What’s your name?”

I blink at the abrupt change of subject. “I’m Colonel Jack O’Neill.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“You think? What’s so funny about it?”

He shrugs slightly, nibbling his bottom lip. “O’Neill is Irish,” he states matter-of-factly. “But where did Colonel Jack come from?”

“Colonel is a military rank, like a title. Do you know what a title is?”

“Of course, title is like mister, or Doctor, or Professor.”

“I knew you were smart! So - instead of mister - I’m Colonel Jack O’Neill.”

“You’re still older than my Dad.”

“Yep, he was a few grades behind me in school. Daniel, do you know where you are?”

“No.” For the first time, secure in my lap, he takes a good look around. 

We have a little pocket of space. The bed next to us has been left empty, whether on purpose or not, I don’t know, but I suspect Major Davis may have had something to do with it. 

Daniel assesses me again. “Why?”

“I just wondered if you recognized you’re in a military facility.”

“What’s a ... fa - ci - li - ty?” He sounds out the word, trying it on for size and apparently decides he likes it. “Facility. Is that like a special kind of place?”

Unlikely there would have been much talk of facilities on a desert, archeological dig site. If the situation weren’t so desperate, it might be amusing. A Daniel Jackson who sounds out words, then claims immediate ownership is kinda cute. 

“Well, a facility is like a place that houses something. Say your folks pick the New York Museum of Art as the place they want to have their exhibit. The museum, itself, the actual building that houses all those works of art, that’s a facility.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. So facility is the same word as museum?”

This is getting far too technical. And so Daniel Jackson.

“Not exactly. This building we’re in right now is just one of several facilities on this base. So maybe the word facility would exchange better with a word like . . . building. Is that a little clearer?”

“I like the New York Museum of Art.” 

Wait, did someone change the channel again? 

“I’ll bet you do. Lots of fun things to see in there. But I thought you’d never been to America?”

“My mom and Dad have lots of museum books. I like to look at the New York ones the best. Do you know where they are? How did I get here if they’re not here? Has someone told them what happened? Are they on their way? If Colonel is a title, then that other man’s name must be Paul Davis and his title is Major?”

“Uhm, right.” 

Well, at least he was paying attention, even if he wasn’t communicating.

“What’s a rank?” This game is okay as long as he doesn’t have to think about where he is or how far away he is from his parents. “Does that mean you work here?” 

“A rank is a level of profession. In the military it means people who are ranked lower than I am have to do what I say.”

“Oh.” He mulls that over for a few seconds, then asks again, “Does that mean you work here?”

“No, I work at a facility very much like this one, but it’s in the United States.”

“What’s this place?”

“This is a United States military base, in the country of Honduras. Do you know where that is?” I can see him picturing a mental map as he squeezes his eyes shut. All that’s missing is that raised finger and the ‘give me a minute’. 

“Oh,” he says in surprise, momentarily forgetting the finger in his mouth. “It’s at the bottom of Central America. My grandpa Nick does most of his work in South America. I’ve never been there. We’ve worked mostly in Europe and the Middle East since I was born.”

Six? This kid is six? 

“I didn’t think you’d gone to school yet. How do you know all this stuff?”

He shrugs and chews harder on his finger as the tears well up again. “Where’re my mom and dad? I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“I know you do, kiddo.” I snug him back against my chest and rest my chin on top of his head. “Think you can answer just a couple more questions?”

“Don’t know,” he sniffs. “What questions?”

“Do you remember anything about what happened to you today, before you woke up here?”

He gives it a shot. I can see the wheels turning, but eventually he shakes his head slightly. “No.”

“Okay. Can you tell me what you were doing yesterday?” I glance up as something outside the chaotic noise going on around us breaks my concentration. 

Major Davis is standing at the foot of the bed. 

“Daniel?” I squeeze him lightly and feel him stiffen as his head comes up and he catches sight of the major.

“Could I speak to you for a moment, sir? Outside?”

One small arm snakes around my neck and suddenly there’s a little python twining around my torso, squeezing for all he’s worth. Short of prying him loose, he’s not going anywhere, and neither am I at the moment. Definitely not out into the hall without him, so I assume there’s no reason to go out in the hall. 

“Sir,” Davis grimaces, but continues delicately when I motion for him to go on. “We’ve run into a bit of a snag. I’ve made some phone calls, but until things can get sorted out, we’re . . . uhm . . . going to have to . . . wait, sir. For a little bit at least.”

“Because?” I inquire caustically. “If there’s no military transport, get us on a commercial flight.”

Davis frowns. “That would be part of the problem, sir. His passport,” he nods at Daniel, who’s trying to burrow into my neck like a Goa’uld, “is no longer valid. We may have trouble getting him out of the country. Which, at the moment, seems to be imperative . . . if you get my drift, sir.”

Christ! He got a red carpet invitation to attend the festivities, and now he’s a terrorist? Okay maybe not a terrorist, but at the very least, a potentially embarrassing left over of a situation they don’t want broadcast. That could work in our favor, or it could mean we may be running for our lives shortly. 

Naturally the official government is disavowing all knowledge of this oh-so-interesting-artifact, aptly named the Fountain of Youth, if the rumors are true. And Daniel’s current condition seems to substantiate the rumors if nothing else. 

Davis says short of a covert op it’s unlikely we’ll ever get our hands on it, which means unless Daniel remembers . . . oh you know, the damn schematics for the thing . . . there’s no possible way Carter will be able to reverse engineer it and change him back. 

So now it appears they’ve rescinded Daniel’s invitation to be in the country. Funny how things work out like that.

Well, guess what, we’re getting him out if I have to hijack a plane. 

“Exactly what are we waiting for now, Major?”

“It’s my understanding the C.O. here is waiting for a phone call from the president. I believe we’ll be cleared as soon as that confirmation is made.”

“Then why are we still here? Take us to the plane.”

“Well, sir, that’s the other part of the problem. All their planes large enough to carry enough fuel to get us home are out on maneuvers at the moment.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble into Daniel’s jacket, or Davis’s, as the case may be. 

Daniel’s arms tighten around my neck, probably in response to my tone of voice. 

“It’s okay,” I soothe, rubbing his back lightly. “So what is available?”

“There are a couple of old C-140s prepped and ready to go, sir. That’s about it.”

“Fine, can one of them get us to the next base, at least? Preferably in the next country?”

“Uhm, good thought, sir. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Major?”

Davis turns back, a ubiquitous eyebrow raised. Everybody wants to be Teal’c now days. 

“Would this be your jacket?” I pluck at the material draping Daniel.

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t happen to collect the rest of his stuff did you? When you collected him?” 

“His clothes were pretty scorched, sir. I did find his backpack; it’s in the cabinet by the bed.”

I feel my own eyebrow instinctively elevate. “Uh, has anybody checked him out? We know he’s okay?” The Pentagon sent Davis down here hot foot like - to do the diplomatic thing - so he beat me down here, but only by an hour or two at the most. 

“He wouldn’t let the doctor touch him, sir. Nor let them do any x-rays.”

“And you didn’t think this was important enough to tell me because—?”

Davis has the perspicacity to look slightly chagrined. “Sorry, sir, I suppose I assumed the doc would fill you in.”

I look around at the beehive of activity going on around us. “Yeah. Go get us a plane. In the meantime, I want some x-rays before we get him airborne.”

“Yes, sir.” The major exits quickly, justifiably afraid of my wrath. 

“I don’t want any tests. I’m fine,” Daniel tells me as I sit back down on the bed. 

“Yeah, well, I hear that from my other Daniel all the time too and you know what, he doesn’t always tell me the truth.” I’m as gentle as I can be while un-wrapping the small, resisting arms from around my neck. “Are you telling me the truth?” I don’t get nearly as much resistance as I un-wrap his legs. “Daniel?” I could probably bench press him indefinitely he weighs so little. “What are you wearing under that jacket?”

He’s eying me suspiciously again. “Why?”

“Because,” I reply as patiently as possible under the circumstances, “I’m not going to strip you naked in front of God and country if you’re not wearing anything but the jacket.”

His tiny hands fold the extra material over so the coat’s hugged close to his body. “Was he talking about my clothes? Is that why I’m wearing this?”

Daniel’s never been much of an exhibitionist, unlike most of the rest of the SGC. He always wears a robe or towel from the showers back to the locker room. If Carter’s in the room and he has to unzip to tuck his shirt in, he turns his back. 

Deeply ingrained patterns of behavior usually stem from conditioning begun at a very young age. I’m guessing at six he’s already developed the Puritan streak that runs through him now. So I’m not going to embarrass him by making him drop the coat.

“You’ve been to the doctor before haven’t you?” I’m not exactly ignoring the question about his clothes, but I don’t want to go there just yet, so we’ll take a little side trip. 

“My mom and dad are both doctors,” he responds, looking up at me with a perfectly straight face. 

Oh yeah, straight man to my funny guy.

“Yes, but that’s not the kind of doctor I mean. Haven’t you ever been to the doctor when you were sick?”

“No. I’ve never been sick. One of our workers got sick once. He died. Am I sick?”

I close my eyes briefly. “No, I don’t think you’re sick. But, Daniel, something happened to you, something that caused you to be thrown across a room. Do you hurt anywhere? Does your head hurt? How many fingers am I holding up?” 

He looks at me quizzically when I don’t bother to let him answer, just slide him off my lap onto the bed. 

“Stick your leg out for me.”

He obeys. 

Surprisingly. 

“Now the other one. That’s good. Let’s push these sleeves up like so . . . Danny?” I touch the slightly reddened skin of his right arm. “Does that hurt at all?”

He shakes his head, though I can see the white mark my finger left on his skin. It looks like no more than mild sunburn, but I’m concerned. 

“How about your shoulder? Does it look the same?”

“I’m fine,” he states baldly, transparently trying to end this impromptu exam.

“You can let me look at it, or I’ll go get the doc,” I tell him implacably.

He eyes me for a moment, then reluctantly lets go of the bunched material so it slides down to the crook of his elbow. 

His shoulder isn’t exactly red, but it is already turning multiple shades of purple. 

I have to close my eyes again; it takes a couple of seconds to get myself under control. I don’t want my shaking voice to scare him any more. 

“Daniel, I want to see your other arm too.” I make no move to help, or even touch him, as he swiftly pulls the coat back over his shoulder and just as reluctantly drops his other shoulder. 

It’s lightly sun-kissed, smooth baby skin, drawn taut over muscles moving fluidly beneath the flawless skin. 

“Does your side hurt like your shoulder does?” This time I very gently snug the coat back up over his arm, careful not to pull it against the sore shoulder.

He frowns. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“What doesn’t hurt? Your shoulder? Or your side?”

He shakes his head, mouth pursed, tears pooling in those huge blue eyes again. “I just want to go home.” Without warning he crumples in a heap, curling back into a ball as the tears overflow once more. “I want to go home,” he sobs, breaking what’s left of the battered organ I occasionally remember is a heart. “I want to go home.”

Now that I know, I notice he is favoring that shoulder. And given the amount of bruising already evident, I can just bet his whole right side looks pretty much the same. 

I look around for the doc, who, thankfully, is looking directly at us. 

“Colonel,” he greets as he strides over. Must have been briefed already, despite this mess. He’s young, probably his first posting out of med school. His name tag reads Captain Jamie Hernandez. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you before, sir.” He waves a hand. “One of our units ran into a little trouble early this morning with a group of guerillas.”

“I noticed.” I’ve pulled the isopod back onto my lap. “We need some x-rays, Doctor.” I very carefully draw the jacket down enough to expose the bruised shoulder. “I’m sure this isn’t all.”

“Major Davis told you he wouldn’t let any of us touch him, sir?”

“I’ll take him; just tell me where to go.” 

Doctor Hernandez glances over his shoulder. “Captain, finish up with Airman Kliner, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Put in a call to the CIC if you need more help down here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This way.” Hernandez eyes me momentarily before executing an about face.

Scooping up Daniel, I’m two steps behind the doc, trailing in his wake as he strides quickly down the aisle between the beds and out through the swinging doors. 

“Franks, we need a full skeletal series, pay particular attention to the right side, and I want a full skull series as well. Colonel O’Neill is going to stay with the patient. Colonel,” Hernandez hands me a gown. “You’ll need to get him changed into this. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can’t find you some scrubs for when we’re done here. I don’t know that we’ve got anything even close to small enough for him though.”

“We’ll make do. Thanks, Doc.”

Hernandez nods, does another by-the-book about face and disappears, leaving me to get Daniel changed. 

All the fight’s gone out of him. He’s quiescent as I unbutton the jacket, grinding my teeth as I get a good look at his right side. For the first time he responds to pain as my fingers graze a wicked bump hidden under that mop of hair, just above his ear. 

He jerks away, clamping his teeth together on a hiss. 

The bruising extends from his neck, clear down the back of his thigh on the right side. I can only assume he must have hit the wall as an adult. If he’d hit at this size, with the force this bruising indicates, it probably would have killed him.

Miraculously, x-rays indicate only a couple of cracked ribs. Nothing’s broken. 

By the time we’re done though, he’s trembling like a leaf in a tropical hurricane. An SF brings scrubs and one of the blankets they keep specially warmed for shock patients. 

I tuck the blanket around him as he curls up, on his left side, on the x-ray table to watch me as I make a couple of alterations to the scrubs. 

My handy dandy Swiss Army knife slices through the thin material easily as I downsize the pants, lengthwise anyway, not much we can do about the waist, though thankfully they all have drawstrings. 

The top is a much better fit, sized for a small woman instead of the typical one-size-fits-all-large the military provides. Probably from one of the nurses. It still hangs to his ankles, the short sleeves reaching nearly to his wrists. 

I get him dressed, snug him back in the blanket, and pick him up again. Hopefully Davis has found us transport by now, but I need to make one other stop - the infirmary for drugs. If we’re not standing right next to him when something happens to Daniel, dragging it out of him requires a block and tackle. Either that trait, too, was ingrained early, or it’s regressed with this incarnation. But he’s clearly in pain now. Even if we were flying non-stop commercial, in relative comfort, he’s gonna need pain meds. The jump seats in the belly of a C-140 are nothing like comfortable. Note to self; see if you can cage some extra blankets as well. 

I’m purposefully not holding him tightly and he shifts a little in my arms. Naturally, I react by cinching my grip and he grunts. Yeah – definitely gonna need pain meds. 

“Sorry, buddy.” I stop for a moment, think this through, and rearrange him so he can lay his head on my shoulder, one arm under his miniature blanketed ass, the other hand lightly pressing the blanket to his shoulders. “Better?” I assume his sigh is agreement of some sort. Better at least, even if it’s not great. 

We sally forth into the corridor, almost running into Davis who’s just coming through the infirmary doors.

“We ready, Major?”

“Yes, sir. General Hastings has cleared the transport. The plane’s sitting on the runway waiting for us.”

“Grab his backpack, would you. I need to get some pain meds from the doc and we’re on our way.”

“Injuries, sir?”

“Couple of cracked ribs, slight concussion, and some really bad contusions. Thankfully, nothing serious.”

Doctor Hernandez is already headed our way. He hands me a plastic bottle of pills. 

“I don’t have this in a smaller dose, so give him half-a-one every three or four hours. It may very well put him to sleep, but it will alleviate the discomfort. Make sure he sees his own pediatrician when you get home, sir. And keep a close eye on him for the next few hours. Contusions like that can easily throw a clot. I’ve put some baby aspirin in too. You should give him one of those about every three hours as well. Frankly I’m not thrilled with the idea of your having him in the air for the next six or seven hours . . .” he trails off, sighs, and wipes a hand over his face. 

I realize suddenly he’s exhausted; I’ve seen that look on Frasier’s face a time or three. 

“I understand there’s some rush to get him out of the country though. Be sure and watch him closely, sir,” he repeats with emphasis, just in case I’m too dense to get it.

Oh, I get it, all right. I have the advantage of having known Daniel for going on eight years now. I’ve got first-hand experience with his aptitude for drawing trouble to himself like a universal magnet. 

The doc waves over an SF. “Get Colonel O’Neill one of those shrink wrapped cases of bottled water. If you can get him to drink, sir, it will really help to keep him hydrated.”

I nod and jerk my head toward Davis as the SF tries to hand me the water. “Thanks. I’ll make sure he drinks. Any chance we could snag a couple more blankets?”

“I thought you might need some.”

Davis collects blankets as well as the water. I see he’s also got Daniel’s backpack and we’re good to go. 

“Any other instructions, Doc?”

Hernandez shakes his head. “Best I can do for you, sir, under the circumstances. 

Daniel will have that word down pat by the time we’re done with this. 

“Yeah. Give my regards to the general here, and thanks again for your help.”

“Yes, sir.” Hernandez snaps a jazzy salute I return with a nod, since both hands are occupied at the moment. 

“Major, I think we’re ready. Daniel? You ready to blow this joint?”

“I want to go home,” he says plaintively. 

I suspect on some level he’s already aware he won’t be going home ever again; though maybe not. Which is incredibly disconcerting. 

“Yeah, I know you do, buddy. We’re working on it.” This time I follow Major Davis down the corridors of this Quonset hut maze, stepping from the dark, humid interior into the bright, hot sunshine that’s Honduras in early May. 

Daniel tenses in my arms, turning his face into my neck. Even a slight concussion leaves you pretty light sensitive; this dazzling glare probably hurts.

I fish for my sunglasses, trying to shift him as painlessly as possible. “How far, Major?”

Davis indicates a Jeep idling on the tarmac. “This gentleman has been assigned to take us to the airfield, sir.”

“All aboard, Colonel?” the airman asks, as Davis climbs into the back seat and I settle Daniel and myself in the front passenger seat. 

“Yes, Sergeant. Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem, sir; part of the job.” He delivers us to the bottom of the metal staircase rolled up to the belly of the C-140.

Haven’t seen the inside of one of these babies since . . . oh, let’s see, sometime near the beginning of the Gulf War. No, wait, that’s not true. We flew one of these out of Moscow on that mission to shut down the locked Russian Stargate. 

Yep, forgot that. They’re definitely not equipped for passenger comfort.

I make Daniel a nest of blankets on the floor, coax him to swallow half a pill and enough water I’m satisfied for the moment, then settle beside him with my back to the wall of jump seats. 

Eyes closed, he pats my knee. 

Taking his hand, I rub between his thumb and forefinger in hopes of soothing the headache I can see building behind his squinched eyes. 

He sighs once, deeply, and within just a few minutes the miniature fingers wrapped around my hand relax. I don’t let go; I need the connection as much as he does. 

I close my eyes and absorb the teeth rattling vibrations of the hull as we start the taxi down the runway, hear Daniel’s breathing hitch as we nose into the air, and look down into wide, frightened eyes. 

His lips move and I’m sure he’s asking again if we’re taking him home, but there’s too much noise to hear as this old bucket of bolts roars into the sky on a wing and a prayer. 

Yes, Daniel, we’re going home. 

Just not to the home you remember. 

~*~

This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. All characters and settings are the property of Showtime/Viacom, Sony/MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.


	2. The Littlest Ancient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who get custody of the Littest Ancient?

The Fountain of Youth Series

The Littlest Ancient

Davis slaps the classified folder down, pauses to glance around at Carter, Teal'c and me, then turns to General Hammond who's seated at the head of the table.

The general has his elbows on the chair arms and his fingers steepled together almost in an attitude of prayer.

That's about what we've been reduced to over the past thirty-six hours - prayers of supplication.

For all our high tech gadgetry and over-the-top brilliance in the scientific field, nobody's been able to come up with a way to reverse what's happened to Daniel.

"We're still unable to get any of the officials who were in the room to confirm what happened, sir. But this," Major Davis pushes the folder over to Hammond as he takes a seat beside the general, "certainly adds credence to the claims of this device being some kind of Fountain of Youth. Take a look at the before and after photos, sir."

The general peruses the pictures carefully, slides them back in the folder and passes it to me. Carter's looking over my shoulder. "There are six people in here, Major?" I glance across the table at Davis.

"The eyewitness who went in after Dr. Jackson also provided before and after photos, sir. You'll note the difference in age is much less dramatic in his pictures than in any of the others. It seems to indicate time of exposure increases the effect of the device."

"Before you ask, no sir, we have no idea how it works," Carter says distractedly, speaking to me though her eyes are on Davis as well. Or maybe she's talking to Hammond. I'm sure we're both thinking the same thing.

"Do we know if the regression in the other individuals affected their memories like it has Daniel's?" she asks, completely focused now that she's assimilated the facts the pictures lay out. "Did they give you any idea how long the device had been activated? Obviously it physically regresses the individual, but does the regression terminate the natural aging process?"

I prop my chin in my hand and watch the majors play mental ping pong across the table.

"Well, I suppose it will take awhile before we know if the device terminates the aging process. However, according to our source—"

"Does this source have a name?" Teal'c inquires stoically.

"He's identified himself only as Officer Gonzalez," Major Davis replies.

"Which would be roughly the equivalent of someone calling himself Officer Smith in this part of the world, Teal'c," I throw in, just to keep a hand in the game. "I'm curious, Major, how did we get these pictures? It doesn't look like anyone came forward to volunteer for these after shots."

The before pictures are clearly studio stills, the subjects spiffed, coiffed and posed to show their best sides. Not that any politician has a *best* side.

The after photos seem to have been faken with a telephoto lens. However, even slightly grainy, the de-aged effects are obvious. Lines and furrows no longer mark brows, grooves plowed deeply beside mouths are barely creases, hooded eyelids are wrinkle-free. The most prominent difference, though, is in the reappearance of distinctive angles and planes in several of the faces that had rounded and puffed with accumulated years.

"Office Gonzalez accepted a financial incentive to track down the individuals in question."

"So why haven't we bribed him to tell us what really happened?"

"I know I indicated I suspected he had more information than he first shared, but in speaking with him again, with a different interpreter, I've come to believe my first impression was wrong. He was agitated and kept looking to the interpreter as though asking for permission to speak. Obviously I could not see his physical reactions when we spoke on the phone, but he was much more relaxed, even voluble, this time. The interpreter had a hard time keeping up with him. He told me the machine was emitting a kind of glow and humming when he went into the room, but that both the flow and humming faded as he picked up Dr. Jackson. He did not stay to investigate since he thought he had a hurt child on his hands."

"I'm sure we will all have more questions," Hammond states, dropping his hands back onto the chair arms, "but let's get back to these pictures."

"As I was saying, sir, Officer Gonzalez believes he's regained about five years. He reports no memory loss and does not think he was in the room above two minutes. From the other pictures, our experts believe it's probable the average age reduction was fifteen to twenty years. In Dr. Jackson's case, and we know he was in the room the longest, perhaps as much as an hour, he's physically regressed thirty-three years. Were you able to deduce anything, Major, from the testing you did on Dr. Jackson's clothing?"

"Nothing particularly helpful. It appears the initial energy surge that tossed Daniel across the room was electrical in nature, as opposed to chemical. Those scorch marks are definitely electrical burns. If he's the one who turned it on, he's lucky it just pitched him against the wall. The charge appears to have been powerful enough to have electrocuted him if he'd been in direct contact with the device."

"Just think, all this could have been avoided if he'd just kept his cottonpickin' hands to himself."

"Sir, he wouldn't be our Daniel if he could resist temptation like that."

"Yes, and he'd still be thirty-nine instead of six, Major."

"Majordavis, we do not know if the other individuals, those who regained fifteen or twenty years, lost their memory?"

"No confirmation on that, Teal'c. As I said, none of them are talking. Our source says all five are said to have taken a medical leave-of-absence. He believes the cover story will be they've all undergone cosmetic surgery of one sort or another."

Teal'c passes the pictures back down the table to Carter. "What will happen to Danieljackson now, General Hammond?"

"I'm taking him home as soon as Frasier releases him." I've already cleared this with the general. I had to fight Frasier for custody and she very nearly won with her argument Cassie would be company for Daniel.

Like Cassie's ever home anymore since she's at the Academy.

For cryin' out loud! I'll get him a dog if he needs company. And besides, what am I? Chopped liver?

"That is irrelevant to my inquiry," Teal'c intones. "I desire to know if there are plans in progress to acquire the device?"

"Ah." That's something we've only danced around so far and I've gotten the strong impression the general isn't too keen on the idea of letting us go after it. I suppose if we were able to pull it off, we'd be the prime suspects on a very short list. However, by refusing to acknowledge there is such a device, the Honduran government has basically given us every opportunity to take advantage of their thoughtfulness in providing such a perfect cover story. If there is no device, how can we have possibly stolen it?

"I think before we give any thought to pursuing that possibility, we need to exhaust all other avenues of returning Dr. Jackson to his appropriate age."

"Sir, with all due respect, if we are going to pursue this option, we need to do it quickly, before their government has a chance to bury this thing so deep we'll never find it again. Right now there will still be a trail. If we let it get very cold, General, we could easily loose the option all together."

"I understand that, Colonel, and I understand your need for action right now, but in the long run we do Dr. Jackson no good if we lose more of our people in the search for this device and I can't at present, sanction that risk. For the time being, at least, that discussion is tabled."

"We have feelers out to all our allies as well." Carter taps the pictures back into the folder and pushes it across the table to Major Davis. "The device must work on a similar principle to the sarcophagus and the other device Daniel and Dr. Lee brought back the first time."

"Forgive me, Major," I offer politely, "I was under the impression we'd learned squat about the Telchak device."

"That's not exactly true. We've learned quite a lot about it, just not how it works, sir. For instance, we know—"

"Spare me. The only thing I'm interested in right now is returning Daniel to his real age. Permission to get back to him, sir."

"Go, Colonel. It's obvious we're not going to accomplish anything more here. Is Doctor Frasier still planning to release him today?"

"It's a possibility, sir. But there are still some issues the doc wants addressed." If I didn't know better, I'd think she's stalling because she doesn't get to keep him.

"Such as?"

"He's not responding, sir. I think we need to tell him his parents are dead. The doc says we can't throw that at him without some lead time. We've agreed to disagree, but she's holding the upper hand, sir."

"How's that, Colonel?"

"She's the C.M.O., sir."

"Jack." Hammond isn't amused.

"Sir, I believe if I can just get him out of here, he'll come around. I mean think about it - until his parents died in that accident, Daniel lived an idyllic life. I really don't believe he understands fear, sir. And that's part of the problem. He's frightened and he doesn't know how to respond to being afraid, so he's shut down."

"You've discussed this with Doctor Frasier?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll come with you, Colonel."

Frasier's argument is nothing's going to be familiar to him. This is a kid who's been raised in the desert. He's going to be familiar with sand and palm trees, folks with olive skin for the most part, though I know his parents had people of all race and color working their digs.

I get where she's coming from, but for cryin' out loud, he woke up on a military base several thousand miles from what he knows as home, then woke up several more times, groggy and feeling like shit, to find himself being shuffled from plane to plane. This was not the trip you want to write home about. And when he finally woke up for real, it was on yet another military base, several miles below ground and nowhere closer to home.

He doesn't know which end is up. Is it any wonder he's convinced he's been kidnapped?

I've been thinking about this a lot and I know I'm right. I think just seeing trees and the sun would make a difference to him at this point.

(Hold a moment longer)

Hammond and I have known each other long enough to be comfortable without small talk. It's an elevator ride and a couple of hallways from the conference room to the infirmary here at the SGC.

Frasier looks up as we breach the double doors, says something to Daniel, and reaches down to brush the hair from his forehead.

He turns his head away from her and she closes her eyes briefly before straightening as Hammond approaches the foot of the bed.

I go to the other side and lower the railing so I can sit down. "Hey, Sport. Had breakfast yet this morning? Or did you wait for me?"

"When are you going to let me go home?" he asks listlessly.

He would turn away from me if he could, except I always go to his left side. It still hurts too much to turn on his right side; you learn a thing or two by the time you get to be a colonel.

"Daniel, we're doing our best to track down your parents, but we haven't been able to locate them. I'm sure they're frantic by now, they're probably searching everywhere for you and we're just not crossing paths trying to find each other. If we can talk Doc Janet into letting you out of here, would you like to go home with me? At least until we can find your folks?"

The kid opens his eyes and tilts his head, looking me straight in the eye. "Why are you lying to me?"

There is no schooling my surprise, which naturally just reinforces his correct assessment. That a six-year-old has the balls to call a spade a spade is … I don't know … beyond astonishing. But then, that's our Daniel Jackson. Six, or sixty, he's gonna call it like he sees it. Obviously this, too, has been deeply ingrained in him from a very early age.

I close my mouth.

"I believe it's time we tell him the truth, Doctor," General Hammond murmurs.

Frasier frowns, but responds with the appropriate, "Yes, sir."

The blue eyes flit back to me, search my face, and fasten with morbid dread on my own eyes. Whether he's accessing adult Daniel's memories or not, I can't tell, but he knows already. He knew before we got on the first plane.

I reach for his hands. He offers no resistance and I have to swallow past the rock suddenly blocking my air passages. "You're right, Daniel, I haven't been exactly truthful … your parents were in an accident too … they didn't survive. I can't being to express how sorry I am for your loss, and I know you can't understand now, why we didn't tell you right away. But you were in danger and we needed to be sure you were safe before we shared this news."

His hands are passive in mine.

He swallows hard, blinks, and two fat crystal tears slide down his cheeks. "They're not in here anymore," he says, pulling a hand free to spread his fingers over his heart.

I spread mine over top of his. "I'm sorry, Daniel," I repeat, not knowing what else to say. "I'm very, very sorry." I touch his chin, pick up his cold hand and close my fingers around it, oblivious to the other two still standing here. "I know there's no way you can possibly comprehend at the moment, but I didn't lie when I told you that you'd been involved in an accident. It erased several years of your life, including all your memories of what's happened during those years. Your parents have been dead for a very long time."

He's looking at me like I've lost my mind. And maybe I have, maybe this is all a bad dream. Or maybe we're on some alien planet and an alien substance has induced a really bad trip. I know I'd like to wake up and find this whole situation is a Dallas déjà vu.

In Daniel's head it's 1967. Had he grown up here in the U.S., he might have been exposed to Star Trek, Land of the Giants, or 'Danger, Will Robinson'. I know he's seen the Lost in Space remake. Teal'c happens to be big into science fiction.

However, it's unlikely, having lived his first six years on various digs over Europe and the Middle East, he's even been exposed to I Love Lucy, let alone sci fi.

Fortunately for me, inspiration strikes. "For now, can you think about it this way? Imagine the evil god Telchak had imprisoned you in his dungeon for thousands of years, but you never grew old. Essentially time stands still for you. Imagine one day you break out of his fortress and you find that outside the fortress, time has gone on. The whole world has changed. Nothing's the same anymore. The people you knew are all gone, the house where you used to live is nothing but ruins; heck, you may even want to excavate it it's so ancient." I give his hand a squeeze.

Okay, maybe not incredibly brilliant, as he's still looking at me like I suddenly have two heads, but hopefully I've at least redirected him into a less literal interpretation of what's happened.

Eventually we're going to have to explain everything. I don't think thirty-six hours out we're going to get much coherence.

"Daniel?"

He closes his eyes, soundless tears flowing steadily as he rolls to his good side, toward me, and holds out his arms.

I gather him up as carefully as I can, mindful of his still badly-bruised body and snug him against me so we share one heartbeat. I don't have words or actions that will ease this monumental hurt he's suffering. I can't take away his pain, or even share it in any meaningful way.

I can be his safe harbor until the storm is past. I have every intention of being his anchor when he's ready to begin exploring this strange new world.

Peripherally, I'm aware Hammond and Frasier have drifted away. Mostly I'm focused on the small, warm, heaving body in the circle of my arms.

Predictably, when the initial storm is past, there are questions. Some of them are relatively easy.

"What happened to them?" he asks, scrubbing his wet face with both fists.

"You remember the cover stone you were telling me about yesterday? The one that was going to get you a huge display in some world famous museum?"

He nods, lays his head against my heart with a sigh, and wraps both hands around my arm.

"You were right. There was a lot more than just a cover stone found on that dig. The New York Museum of Art won the bid to display the coveted artifacts that Dr.'s Claire and Melbourne Jackson uncovered, including an extremely well-preserved tomb they planned to reassemble as the main attraction of the display. There was . . . an accident . . . during the reassembly. As I understand it, a chain broke . . . they were killed instantly. The important thing to remember, Daniel, is the last thing they knew, they were doing something they loved."

And as I knew would be the case, some of them are not so easy.

"How come I didn't die too?"

A sigh escapes me, despite my best efforts to hold it in. The universal question – why me?

"The easy answer to that would be you weren't under the cover stone when it fell. But that's not what you're asking is it?" I get a minimal head shake in response and another sigh out of him. "I don't have an answer for that question, Sport. I don't even have a guess. But I can tell you I'm thankful you weren't under that cover stone. Years later, when you were grown and came to work with me, you saved my life when I was very sad because I'd recently lost my own son."

"How can that be?"

"See, there's no easy answer to that question either. You're just gonna have to trust me on this one. Maybe someday it will make sense again."

"If they died, what happened to me?"

"Well," I begin again, wanting to frame this as positively as possible, despite the fact I'm still pissed at Nick for abandoning this kid all those years ago. "You also mentioned yesterday your grandfather worked mostly in South America. He felt his dig wasn't an appropriate place for you, that you needed to be in school, and he couldn't do that. So he allowed the state of New York to take custody of you. Until you were about sixteen, when you moved into a college dorm, you lived with several different families who took in children temporarily."

"Where were you?"

Since I've already been exposed for lying about his parents, guess it doesn't matter now if he knows how old I am. "That would have been a little more than thirty years ago. I was eighteen, just starting at the Air Force Academy."

"It doesn't feel like it happened a long time ago."

"I know it doesn't, Sport."

He's quiet for a long time, then sighs heavily. "What's going to happen to me now?"

Ahhh, the sixty-four million dollar question.

"For the immediate future, you're going home with me. In the meantime, we're trying everything we can think of to get you changed back into the big you."

"What if that doesn't work?"

I sigh too, mostly because without the Telchak device, I don't see any way to accomplish our goal. "Then we will talk about what you want to do, would that be okay?"

Perhaps that's not a fair question. I have to keep reminding myself he is only six. But something happened to Dr. Jackson when he ascended; something I don't think can be erased, or changed, no matter what else happens to him.

I once had the repository of the Ancients downloaded into my brain. Fortunately for me, the Asgards took it out, otherwise my head would probably have exploded. But because of that, I experience things from a different perspective.

Essentially, when Daniel ascended, the same thing happened to him, only on a much broader scale, and he was able to access it in a way I never could have. Whether they couldn't, or just didn't, take that from him when he returned to human form nine months ago, Daniel is now open to the universe in a way that's hard to comprehend and even harder to explain.

The best I can describe it would be to say he understands things that to a mere mortal are incomprehensible, though not necessarily on a conscious level. It's more an intuitive gift, if you will, that makes him more responsive . . . more . . . perceptive, I suppose. Unfortunately, it's also made him more vulnerable.

I'm sure you'll understand when I say the last thing I need or want is a more vulnerable Daniel Jackson. But frankly, we'll take him anyway we can get him. We've discovered, here in this universe anyway, a reality without a Daniel Jackson in our lives sucks big time.

So what am I trying to get at here? All right, maybe it is unrealistic to ask a six-year-old what he wants, but I'm not asking just any six-year-old, I'm asking the Littlest Ancient. In the multiple layers of connections SG-1 shares with Daniel, thanks to that download, I have an extra layer neither Carter, nor Teal'c, share with him. It gives me just a smidge more instinctive understanding of where Daniel's coming from – usually.

So when he sighs again, kneels up on my thigh, slips his arms around my neck and says, "I just want to go home," I know what he wants.

And I can do that for him.

Now.

"Okay, buddy, let's go home."

Disclaimer: This is a work of transformative fan fiction. The Stargate characters, settings and universe are the property of Kawoosh Productions, Showtime/Viacom, Sony/MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.


	3. Hazardous Duty Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ::head desk:: Just realized I'd completely missed posting a chapter between The Littlest Ancient and Operation Sandbox. With these early ones, it doesn't really matter what order you read them in; but they go - On a Wing & a Prayer; The Littlest Ancient; Hazardous Duty Pay; Operation Sandbox. They should go on correctly after this one, now that I've figured this out.
> 
> In Hazardous Duty Pay Jack & Daniel have a discussion about *doctrines* and how many more Daniel will be able to collect if he goes to college again.

The Fountain of Youth Series

Hazardous Duty Pay

 

And here we go again. Round three; ding, ding, ding.

I sigh, scrunch up my eyebrows, and impale the accounting types across the table with the Colonel O'Neill look I've perfected over twenty-five plus years in this man's Air Force. "Look, I can't tell you whether or not Dr. Jackson is going to be resized to normal again any time soon. It doesn't matter. What matters is this happened to him in-the-line-of-duty and therefore you have to keep paying him."

"We're not debating whether or not we're keeping him on the payroll, Colonel," Tweedle Dee says, deadpan. "We're debating whether we should place Dr. Jackson on full disability since it appears he will not be working again anytime soon, sir."

I'd like to smack both Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum Dum; instead, I smack my hand on the table and lean across it. "We have six months to rehab an employee before they're placed on disability! You'll give us the six months, and then some, if I have to go to Washington to get it." 

It helps being 2IC of the Mountain in these situations; I know damn well how much time we have. And this is Daniel we’re discussing; I will go to the depths of hell itself, even Washington, if necessary.

"Sir, this is not the first time Dr. Jackson has encountered—”

"Exactly," I interrupt forcibly. "This isn't the first time Dr. Jackson has been the victim of alien technology. And we won't go into why it always seems to be Dr. Jackson, gentlemen. I myself was cloned by a rogue Asgard and I believe my clone is still on our payroll? Yes, I thought so. Thank you for making my point for me."

"Sir, if Dr. Jackson cannot work indefinitely, we cannot continue to pay his . . ."

"Exorbitant, inflated, civilian salary, Twee . . .” I clear my throat and try again. “Captain?"

"Plus the differential for hazardous duty pay, sir." 

Okay, that's it. I've had it with the bean counter mentality and their stupid number crunching. "Do you have any, and I mean any, concept of how many times Dr. Jackson has laid his life on the line for this planet? Are you aware he’s been officially dead more times than you have fingers on your right hand? Are you aware without Dr. Jackson's single-minded refusal to take no for an answer, when no one else believed Apophis was steaming directly for Earth with a couple of Goa'uld mother ships, you'd be frigging dead right now?"

Tweedle Dum Dum backs up a little, Tweedle Dee has the nerve to sigh and roll his eyes, and I realize I’m on my feet, halfway across the conference table. 

"Colonel." 

Ahhhh, the voice of reason. Thank you, General, I might have had to leap over the table and break their necks in the next instant.

The sound of footsteps clattering up the stairs from the control room breaks the tension almost comically. Small, distinctive footsteps, at least to those of us who work here. 

As he reaches the stairs that allow him see into the board room, Daniel stands on tiptoe to peer through the stair railing. “There you are,” he announces.

I sink back down in my chair as he clatters the rest of the way up the stairs.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, Jack." He huffs his way over to my chair, pats the arm imperiously, and climbs into my lap when I scoot back from the table. 

He pretty much has the run of the place. 

"What's going on?" he wants to know, still huffing as he picks up the yellow legal pad in front of me. 

We're having difficulty getting a handle on his allergy meds. Too much, which is usually the point at which he can breathe easily, and he's like a little hornet on speed. Not enough and he's chuffing and wheezing constantly. Today he's chuffing and wheezing.

"We're discussing how you're going to get paid, Dr. Jackson," Tweedle Dee pipes up. 

Kicking a fellow officer, even under the table, is usually frowned on. I’m sorely tempted to do it anyway.

"Oh, I don't need money. Jack's taking care of me, just like my mom and dad," he says brightly, if still breathlessly, tracing the numbers on the legal pad with his finger. He holds the pad up to me. "Is this a lot of money?"

Actually, this could be fun. I lean an elbow on the arm of my chair and prop my chin in my hand. "Yes, Daniel, it is a lot of money. We're discussing how much you're going to get paid because some day you're going to want to go to college again and college costs a lot of money, especially the way you go through college."

"Oh," he says, a frown of concentration furrowing between his eyebrows. "What do you mean the way I go through college?" He sucks in air as though there's really not enough left in the room to go around. 

Think I'd rather have the hornet on speed. "Well, the first time around you earned three doctorates."

"Is that a lot?"

"Yes, Daniel, that's a lot. Most people don't even get one, let alone three."

"Oh," he says again, like I've just unlocked the mysteries of the Universe for him. "And do those . . .” he pauses to recall the word, “doc-trines cost a lot of money?"

"Yeah, they do. So we need to put away money in the bank for you, so when you get to be a little older, you can go back and get a few more . . . doctrines."

"So what's the big deal?" he wants to know next. "You've been in here for hours and hours. I looked every place I could think of because I was sure you weren't in here anymore. Have you been here all this time?"

"Yes, I have, I'm sorry you couldn't find me."

"That's okay. Teal'c took me to the gym and let me put on those big gloves and hit the bag, but the gloves kept sliding off. Then we went to lunch with Sam. Are you ready to go yet?" He drops the legal pad back on the table and leans back against me.

"Not quite, Sport. You want to go find Carter again, or do you want to stay here? If you stay, you'll have to be quiet until we finish."

"How long's that going to be?" he asks with a much put upon sigh.

"Based on how long it's taken so far, it might be awhile yet."

"Okay, I'll be quiet." He scooches around so he can nestle into the crook of my arm, slides that ring finger in his mouth, and gives the guys across the table another once over. "Do they work for the Air Force, too, Jack?" he stage whispers, tilting his head to look up at me.

"Yeah, they do, just a different part," I whisper back.

"Do they have top secret clearance like you and me?" he whispers again, shooting a glance at Hammond to see if he's going to get in trouble.

George is grinning to beat the band. "How 'bout you come sit with me, son?" He holds out his hands and Daniel takes the quickest route to him, climbing up on the table and crawling the few feet to slide off and snuggle down in George's lap. 

I'm constantly amazed at the way he's taken to our SGC personnel. Obviously this is a child who's known very little fear. This time around, it’s going to stay that way … if I have anything to say about it. 

While the news of his parents’ deaths rocked him to the core, the grief did not consume him like it might have. He still comes out with questions now and then, so it's obviously still very much on his mind, but his natural curiosity hasn't taken the blow this time around it seems like it did the first time. 

"Gentlemen, this is who you're depriving of what's due him. He is a bright, inquisitive child, with a long and prosperous future ahead of him. Would you rob him of that future? Rather, I believe our country should consider it a privilege to share in the upbringing and education of this young man. I have a feeling he's going to do even more important things when he grows up again."

I couldn't have said it better myself. And I'll have to remember to congratulate Daniel on his perfect timing, though I wonder if Carter had something to do with sending him up here at just the right time.

"The final decision isn’t ours, sirs. We will, however, take back your concerns and your proposals to the Appropriations Committee. Perhaps you should make arrangements for Dr. Jackson, himself, to meet with the committee, sirs." Tweedle Dum Dum shoves back his chair. 

As does Tweedle Dee. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of an equitable agreement so all parties are . . ." he clears his throat, "being fairly compensated for past and future accomplishments."

Can it really have been this simple? Bring on the adorable, chuffing, wheezing kid and let him work his magic. 

Daniel has that finger in his mouth and he's making elf locks, twirling and twisting a strand of his hair around a finger on his other hand. Put a pair of pointy ears on this kid and he'd look like he just stepped off the pages of a Tolkein novel. He senses the tension in the air and it's made him slightly nervous, so he keeps darting glances at me, but he doesn't want to lose track of the Tweedle's since they're obviously the enemy. 

"Exactly how long will this process take?" I drawl, leaning back in my chair as they gather their papers and climb cumbersomely to their feet, loaded down with briefcases and excess folders.

"At least another six weeks, Colonel. In the meantime, Dr. Jackson will continue to receive his regular paycheck. Will there be anything else, sir?" This last is to General Hammond who is now in the middle of a battle of thumb wars with Daniel.

"Nothing, Captain. Please advise us of the outcome of these hearings as soon as possible. We need to get his future squared away. There also may be private school expenses that will have to be considered, you might want to include that in your reports." 

Always gracious, our Texas general lets Daniel pin his thumb before he stands and shifts his armload so he can say his farewells to the departing officers. 

"Thank you for your time, gentlemen. Please do your best for Dr. Jackson, if not for his sake, for the sake of our country."

"Yes, sir," the Tweedles echo in sync, causing Daniel to giggle and clap a hand over his mouth. 

Hammond and I exchange a smile over his head and watch our guests exit the board room with more speed than grace. Defeat at the hands of a six-year-old can be pretty disheartening, unless you know Dr. Jackson like we do.

There's another full-fledged battle going on and this time Daniel lets the general win, grinning mischievously at me as the general crows his triumph. 

"Are you ready to go home, Dr. Jackson?" Hammond inquires.

"Yes, sir. I'm hungry," Daniel announces. "Can we go home now, Jack?"

"Sure you don't want to go eat in the Mess tonight?"

"Are we having leftovers?" he asks dubiously.

"Hey, it's been awhile since I've needed to cook anything other than MREs. We could do pizza, or what about Habibi’s Mediterranean tonight?"

He lights up like a Christmas tree. Daniel hasn't particularly taken to good old American food. He says his mother told him he should try everything at least once, just to see if he likes it or not, and, he says, she told him some things need a second taste before they hit your taste buds right, so you should always try something at least twice before you decide you don't like it. I know our adult Daniel wasn't much into American cuisine either, but I hadn't realize how imprinted he was with Mediterranean. 

I'm learning lots of things about Daniel Jackson that really never came out in our day to day routine when he was thirty-something and I was forty-something. It's been an interesting journey and we're only a few weeks into it. 

I wonder every day how long this is going to last.

"Take out? Or eat in?" Daniel has learned those terms quickly. That would be because supper for us is usually one or the other. Keeping up with a six-year-old Dr. Jackson is almost as wearing as our daily trips through the Gate. 

"Can Sam and Teal'c come too? General George, would you like to come to supper with us? Jack told me you live in big old house all alone up on the side of a mountain. Do you ever worry the house will slide off? Do you get lonely up there all by yourself? Jack said Grandma George died like my parents did. Well, not like my parents, just she's dead like them. Do you miss her a lot? Like I miss my mom and dad?" Daniel pats the general's cheek in sympathy as he rattles off these questions one after another with hardly any breathing space. 

At least he's finally caught his breath. We have so got to get his meds straightened out.

General George, who has two granddaughters of his own, answers very patiently. "You know, sometimes I do get lonely in that big old house way up there on the side of that mountain. But I've never been worried about it sliding off. And yes, I do miss Grandma George. A lot. Maybe not as much as you miss your mom and dad, because Grandma George died a few years ago."

"Oh, just like my mom and dad. Jack says they died a long time ago. Sometimes it feels like a long time ago in here.” Daniel pats over George's heart now. "And sometimes it feels like it just happened yesterday. Jack says I probably shouldn't de-well on it, but sometimes I just can't help it." He slides an arm around the general's neck and puts his head down on the blue-clad shoulder. The finger sneaks back up to his mouth, getting a thorough chew. 

When he's anxious, he chews; when he's tired, he sucks; and when he can't breathe, the finger just kind of hangs out to keep his mouth open so he can breathe through his mouth. I can't take the credit for breaking the code; that was Carter, our other resident genius.

I'm wondering what he's anxious about as I take him from the general and second his invitation to supper. "Come on along, sir. The more the merrier. I imagine Carter and Teal'c will come as well."

"That was very thoughtful of you, Daniel, to invite me. Thank you - both of you. But tonight I'm having dinner with my granddaughters and they're cooking."

"Cooking, sir? Sure you don’t want to come with us?"

"The girls tell me they call it Creative FACS now days, something to do with family and consumer science. In my day it was just plain Home Ec and only the girls took it. The boys had Shop."

"I remember those days, sir. Daniel," I pull the finger out of his mouth before he chews off the end. "What's wrong?"

He frowns. "Do I cost a lot of money?"

"What? . . . Why?"

"I don't know a lot about money," he confides, as though he knows a lot about everything else, which he does, for a six-year-old. "But if you don't have enough money for me, will I have to go somewhere else?"

Gut freeze here. "No. Absolutely not. You will never have to go anywhere else no matter how much you cost, okay? We clear on that? And Daniel?" I wait until he's looking at me again. "I will never not be able to afford you."

"You're positive?"

"Positive, absolutely certain, perfectly sure, and I'm running out of synonyms here. Do you understand you will never, ever, ever have to go anywhere else?"

"Okay. But what if a cover stone falls on you and you die too?"

"Wow. You’ve been thinking about this for awhile, huh?"

George gives me a sympathetic smile and nods towards his office. "I'm going to leave the two of you to have this conversation alone. Colonel, make sure he understands, no matter what happens, Daniel will always have a home with someone here."

"Yes, sir." I take us back over to the table, sit Daniel down on the end, and take Hammond's chair. "What made you think something might happen to me like happened to your parents?"

He shrugs, drops his chin, and twists his chewed finger in his other hand. 

"Daniel." I raise his chin to meet his gaze levelly. "I work at a dangerous job and there is a chance I might not come home some day, but even before you came to live with me, I always tried to minimize any risk there is in going through the Gate. We take lots and lots of precautions; even more now that you're little, because we want to be sure we're around to see you grow up. Carter, Teal'c and me? Sometimes we just walk away if we think there might be trouble. When you were big and traveled through the Gate with us, we never turned back. We know we can't do that anymore because you're not going through the Gate with us and we have to come back home to you."

"What will happen to me if you don't come back?"

I close my eyes, pull him a little roughly off the table onto my lap and squeeze him just a little too tightly because he squeaks sorta like a pet chew toy. 

"Sorry." I palm his head and kiss his hair. "I will make absolutely certain you're taken care of if anything ever happens to me. We should talk about who you might want to live with if I'm not around, okay? So you'll always know who's going to take care of you. I don't want you to ever be left with strangers again. Would knowing that help?"

"I don't want to live with anybody else, Jack." He wants very badly to chew on that finger again, but he's making a valiant effort not to.

"This would only be in case of an emergency, Daniel. And I don't expect that to happen. I expect to live a long time yet, at least until you're happily married with kids of your own. But we should choose someone and ask them. And if you pick Carter, or Teal'c, you'll need a back-up person, because if something happens to me, it's likely Carter and Teal'c could be involved as well. That's how it works when we're off world. We're a team."

"So then it would be General George or Doc Janet?"

"Yes, they'd both be good choices and I know either of them would take you in a heartbeat."

"Okay. I'm really hungry now, can we go eat?"

"Sure, let's go find Carter and Teal'c and see if they want to go with us." I ruffle his hair, squeeze him one last time just to hear him squeak again, and laugh as he slides off my lap and runs to the door. 

Except he runs about three steps and has to stop because his chest tightens on him and he can't breathe again, dammit. 

Instead of lecturing about running, I scoop him back up, swing him up on my shoulders, and tell him to duck as we pass through the door. It's not like it's his fault he can't breathe and it’s imperative we do something about this, especially if Hammond's thinking we need to get him into school.

I've already given that some thought and over dinner - Habibi's take out we take back to my house - I raise the subject with Carter and Teal'c. 

"So, the general brought up the subject of school with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum Dum this afternoon."

Daniel's lying on the sofa with his head in Carter's lap, absorbed in something on the Discovery Channel. Cartoons leave him cold, as does sports still, though he'll sit through a game with me for the price of a cuddle. 

Carter rolls her eyes. I made this announcement just as she was trying to take a bite of some slippery, sloshy stuff wrapped in pita bread.

"Sorry, Daniel." 

She picks a piece of spinach out of his ear when he swats at it irritatedly before sliding his hand back between his knees. 

"Are you cold, kiddo?" One-handed, Carter gives the afghan on the back of the sofa a tug so it puddles on top of Daniel. She spreads it over him, tucking it around his sock-clad feet and snugging it over his shoulders, receiving in response the full force of one of his rare, sweet smiles. "School, sir?"

"Yeah, Hammond mentioned private school."

"I've been thinking about our dilemma with school; I think I might have a solution."

"Me too. What are you thinking?"

"How about home schooling?"

"Exactly what I was thinking. Teal'c?"

Carter does a double take with raised eyebrows. "You were thinking Teal'c, too?"

"Actually I was thinking the two of you. Of the three of us, Teal'c has the most time and, I think, probably the most patience. You know your way around the internet so well, T, I figure this will be right up your alley."

"Home schooling Danieljackson?" Teal'c turns to us with that signature eyebrow lift. "Exactly what would that entail, O'Neill?"

"I'm guessing not much effort, given the way he absorbs stuff like a sponge. We'd have to find out what the requirements are, get it approved, I'm sure. Carter, you could do the math and science with him, I'd certainly pitch in wherever I could, but the bulk of this project would fall to you guys."

"You could do astronomy with him, sir."

"Yeah, I could do that. And I could take the English, I suppose. We need to look over programs, though, and have a plan mapped out before we take this to Hammond. What do you think, T? Since the main part of this would fall to you. I have several reasons for suggesting this option, the first being I don't like the idea of putting Daniel into any kind of traditional classroom. But this can’t be solely my decision."

"Sir, he's already reading on a college level. He had one of my chemistry textbooks out the other day, reading it out loud in my lab."

"Why?"

"I was curious to see at what level he could read. He didn't understand what he was reading, but he could sound out the words he didn't know and even translate some of them into other languages. I also counted those languages, sir. He already speaks sixteen fluently and he can communicate on a limited basis in several others. Curiously enough, when I showed him a written Goa'uld text, he was able to translate it as well. It took quite a bit of time, but he puzzled at it until he had the whole thing right. And I know its right because I have the original translation he did six months ago. When I asked him how he could read it, he said it followed a pattern similar to ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs."

"Major?"

"Well, sir, it occurs to me maybe it isn't that Daniel's memory has disappeared, along with his age, maybe it's just that he doesn't really need it so it's sort of . . . dormant right now?"

"Indeed, Majorcarter. Perhaps it needs only the correct stimulation to reawaken those memories."

"Yes, like a seed needs water and sunlight."

"Are you suggesting we plant him, Major? Water him and turn him regularly so all sides get the same amount of sun."

"Jaaaccck!" Daniel says, from inside his little cocoon.

"I thought you were watching TV."

He sits up, huddling inside the afghan. "What's a tradish . . . tradishonal classroom?" There are bright spots of color on his cheeks, never a good sign on Daniel, and his eyelids are drooping heavily. 

I think we'll skip bath time and head straight for bed tonight. "A traditional classroom is one where there are lots of kids all studying the same subject at once, with a teacher."

"Would I like school?" 

"You didn't the first time around and I don’t have any reason to believe you'd like it much better now."

"What about peer groups, sir? He needs to be around kids his own age."

"Why?"

"Uh . . . motor skills development, socialization, self-discovery, sir, just to name a few."

"Why can't he get all that hanging around with us, Carter?"

"O'Neill, children need to play," Teal'c puts in, before Carter starts in on me.

"Lots of kids are home schooled. Maybe we can connect with other parents who are home schooling their kids, form a play group or something."

"That might be feasible." Carter mulls it over as she gathers up trash from the coffee table, then sweeps the room collecting everyone else's as she heads for the kitchen garbage can.

"I would have done that, Carter."

"Habit. I'm thinking, sir." She sits back down, reaches for Daniel, and feels his forehead as he cuddles against her. "He's running a fever, sir."

"Yeah, I was afraid of that. Come on, Sport. Let's get you to bed. I'd like to finish this discussion, if you guys don't mind, before you leave tonight. At least have a preliminary plan in place so if Hammond brings up school again, I can tell him we've got it covered."

"Sure," Carter agrees immediately. "Pete’s back in Denver. I don't have any other plans this evening. Teal'c?"

"I have none either, O'Neill. Do you require our assistance in readying Danieljackson for bed?"

"Thanks, T, I can handle it."

This is our downtime together. On one hand, I don't really want to share it. On the other, I do want to make sure Carter and Teal'c are as much a part of Daniel's family as I am. 

This is the time of day Daniel is the most relaxed. It’s been during this hour of our day that he shares the things I'm discovering are important to him now. If I hadn't pressed earlier this afternoon, because he was mangling his finger, it probably would have come out during our ritual bedtime activities. 

"Bath?" he asks wearily, latching onto my hand as he follows me up the stairs. 

There's enough weight hanging on my hand that I scoop him up. "You want to get in the bathtub?" Maybe the heat will open up some of those clogged sinus passages. "Sure, we can do bath if you want, I thought maybe you'd rather go straight to bed if you're not feeling well again."

"I'm cold."

"Okay, bath it is." I run the water and wait until he's gotten undressed and in the tub before scrounging in the medicine cabinet.

We're nearly out of Children’s Motrin and I make a mental note. We've been doing this for three weeks now, with Daniel fighting secondary issues like ear infections as an added bonus to this whole allergy thing. 

Frasier says antibiotics are useless for a viral infection like the ear thingy he's got going; that those will clear up if we can get the sinus issues under control. She's sent us to an allergist, but he's kind of working blind because I can't say to him, this six-year-old child is really a thirty-nine -year-old man whose physical body, and physical body memory, have regressed to a time when he knew only the hot, dry climate of the desert. I did tell the guy Daniel's only recently moved here from Egypt, thinking that might speed things up. However, I think the only thing it did was add to the list of things he's testing Daniel for. 

So far, the kid's allergic to just about everything - including the detergent I've used since I got divorced; anything new in terms of clothing; and several food groups, along with many nuts and grains. 

OTC stuff minimally controlled the sneezing and itchy, watery eyes, but wasn't strong enough to combat the double and sometimes triple whammy he was getting when he'd put on new clothes, washed in my detergent -- hey, grown-up Daniel never wears anything new until he's washed it several times, I was making a concession washing it at least once -- and eating cereal for breakfast. 

When he got up chuffing and wheezing this morning, I suppose I should have expected this tonight. I'm still getting used to this parenting thing, even though it's my second time around, too. 

I have to admit, I'm only just realizing what a job Sara had raising Charlie mostly on her own. When I look back, I have to admire the way she handled it. She was an awesome lady; I wish her every happiness in her new marriage.

I run a glass of water, glance at Daniel, who has his head down on the side of the tub and scrounge for antihistamines too. 

"Hey, Sport, how 'bout you take a couple of these?" 

My knees protest volubly as I hunker down beside the tub. The aspirin is chewable, the antihistamine is not and it was that or shots. I couldn't see subjecting the kid to shots every day for six weeks that maybe won’t work, so we're trying the pills first. 

I realize, as I take back the glass, there are tears streaking his cheeks. "Daniel?"

He just shakes his head and won't look at me.

"Daniel, what's wrong?" 

Not only is he crying, he's sobbing. When I put my hand on his back, his whole body is quivering, but there's no sound. 

"Daniel," I put a little more colonel into my voice, "what's wrong?" 

"I don't feel good," he hitches out finally, around the still silent, wrenching sobs. "I . . . want . . . my mom-ah-my."

He lets me pluck him out of the water but slumps in a heap on the rug the minute I put him down to dry him off. The heat is radiating off him like he's a little Coleman stove. I snatch him up, take him across the hall, dry him off, and stuff him into pj's as quickly as possible. 

As soon as I put him down on the bed he curls into a tight little ball, pulling away every time I try to touch him. He's so congested he can hardly breathe, but the tears don't stop and with every other hard won breath he whimpers, barely above a whisper, "I want my mommy."

I’m clueless. Do I pick him up? Do I sit and wait? Should I call Frasier? He's never done this before. “Danny, I know I’m not your mommy, but will you please let me hold you?” 

Oh. My. God. What the hell do I do? I’d rather face a hundred armed Jaffa, alone, than this. I stroke a hand down his spine and he rolls away from me, curling up even tighter if such a thing is possible. Panicking, I push off the bed and start to pace, still clueless.

"Sir? Everything okay?” Carter appears in the door with a puzzled frown. Because she’s a great 2IC, she immediately does a sit rep and takes command. "Sir, go call Janet." She’s already bending over unlacing her boots. Toeing them off, she approaches the bed, sits, and scoots back so she's behind Daniel, then pulls her feet up and curls around our little isopod. 

Now why didn't I think of that? 

"Sir, I think it's really important you call Janet." She looks up at me long enough to make certain her message has been clearly conveyed, then focuses all her attention on Daniel. She puts an arm around him, pulls the small resisting body back against her and begins to run her hand over and over through his hair, whispering shushing noises. "I know, sweetie, I know. It's okay . . . it's okay." She rocks them both, eyes closed, totally in that space with Daniel now.

I go for the phone; argue with Frasier about taking him to the base hospital over at Peterson, and finally just pull rank. "I know you're not a kid med facility, Doc, but I don't think he's that sick. It's a combination of things tonight and I want him at the base where I can stay with him. I'll ask the general to bring in a pediatrician if it makes you feel better, but I'm bringing him in to the Mountain." 

She says she'll meet us there and I go back down the hall, only to find Daniel's asleep. 

I'm sure I wasn't gone more than five minutes, but Carter's worked a miracle. The tears haven't even dried on his face, but his breathing’s evened out a little, his eyes are closed, and the tight fists are lax, fingers slightly curled on the hand lying next to his face. 

As if it has a will of its own, that ring finger creeps into his mouth. For just a couple of seconds he chews vigorously, then on a sigh, sucks away the small pain he's self-inflicted and sinks deeper into sleep, soothing himself with a few deep pulls on that finger. A final, small whimper as he turns on his stomach, losing Carter's warmth, and he's out totally. 

I recognize this stage; not even firing a P-90 at close range would wake him now. "Thanks," I say, realizing as I run my hands over my face, they're shaking. "I don’t mind admitting that scared the shit out of me. How the hell did you know what to do, Carter?"

Carter stretches an arm out and lays her head down on it. "I didn't. That was purely instinctive. You forget sometimes, I think, sir, Daniel's my best friend too. He may be little, but he's still our Daniel." 

Daniel hunches a shoulder and Carter lays her hand in the middle of his back, pats soothingly until he calms again, then begins a gentle massage. “Maybe you should call Janet back, sir. I think he’ll be all right now.”

“What about the fever?”

Carter lays the back of her hand against his cheek. “You gave him some aspirin?”

“Yeah, and the antihistamine.”

“Well, they both seem to be working. When does he see the allergist again?”

“Not for another week.”

“Something’s got to give, sir. He can’t go on like this indefinitely. Have you thought about seeing someone else?”

“We’re not going to the base hospital as it is because Janet says this guy’s the best.”

Carter sighs. “I’d give him a call, sir. See if he can fit you in again before next week. Daniel’s exhausted with this. He barely touched his lunch today and you saw how much he ate this evening.”

“Right. And he was starving before we left the base. If you think we’re okay, I’ll go call Frasier again.” Should have brought the phone in here with me.

“Why don’t you see if she’ll detour by here, sir? I doubt she’d mind.”

“I’ll ask.”

Teal’c, who’s come in silently behind me, steps aside to let me past. 

“T? Warn a guy?” I knock him lightly on the shoulder and he does that eyebrow and head tilt thing that’s both question and response. 

“O’Neill, I am behind you.”

“Thanks.” I hear part of their conversation as I head down the hall in search of where I left the phone.

“Is everything under control here, Majorcarter?” 

“For now, at least, Teal’c. We had a mini crisis, but it’s been averted for the time being.”

“Mini crisis?” the Jaffa inquires. “Is Danieljackson unwell again?”

The phone, of course, is exactly where I left it - on the kitchen counter - and I only hear the hum of their voices now. 

“Doc? Sorry to bother you again, but I think Carter’s got the situation under control here . . . Actually, no, she doesn’t think it’s necessary to haul him in to the Mountain after all . . . Yes, I am aware of that this is not your department, Major, I apologize . . . Yes, ma’am . . . Yes, ma’am. Carter told me to ask if you’d mind detouring by here? . . . Yeah, I get it; she just said the same thing. I’ll make sure Daniel gets to see him in the next couple of days, even if it means postponing a mission . . . Yes, he’s absolutely more important than any mission, but I might need that in writing from you when the Appropriations Committee gets my request for hazardous duty pay . . . Right, thanks. See you in a few.” 

I hang up and go unlock the front door before returning to Daniel’s room.

Teal’c’s sitting at the foot of the bed, Carter’s still wrapped around Daniel, and the two adults are talking quietly over his head as Carter continues to rub his back.

“Doc’s on her way.”

“Do you have any Vick’s, sir?” Carter breaks off the conversation with Teal’c to ask.

“Yeah, there’s some in the medicine cabinet.”

“That might help keep his sinuses clear a little longer.”

“I’ll get it. And Carter, lose the sir thing around here.”

“Yes, sir,” she answers automatically, adding a rueful, “Sorry, Sssss . . .” which she cuts off. “Habit. Not sure I can just drop it.”

“Work at it . . . Ahhht.” I put up a finger when she starts to respond again.

Smiling again, she mimes zipping her lips. 

“Thank you.” I do an about face for a return trip to the bathroom.

“O’Neill,” Teal’c says as I come back into the room, feeling my own sinuses opening as I inhale essence of Vick’s. 

“Yeah?”

“You mentioned earlier you had several reasons you felt it would be good to home school Danieljackson. What are your other concerns?”

“My other big concern, T, is NID. I’m a little surprised we haven’t heard from them already. Am I just being paranoid, or does it seem unusual to either of you?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it, sir.”

“Carter.”

“Oops. Are you thinking their silence could have sinister overtones, . . .?” she manages to bite it back this time.

“The thought had occurred to me. I’d be a lot more comfortable if he’s under our noses all day, rather than off somewhere where we have absolutely no control of the situation. Or at the very least under someone’s nose at the SGC. Obviously when we’re off world, we’ll have to make some of kind of arrangements. Hammond’s been good about keeping us on stand down to this point, but I know he’s getting pressure from the Joint Chiefs. I’d like to have a plan in place—”

“Hello? Anybody home?” Doc’s voice, from the entryway.

“Come on in, Major, we’re all back here in Daniel’s room.”

The doc comes in shedding a BDU field jacket. She sets her little black bag on the dresser and surveys us, hands on hips. “Well, if this isn’t the cozy little domestic scene,” she says, motioning Teal’c up from his spot. “How is he, Sam?”

“Much better. Did the colonel tell you what happened?”

“Briefly.” Frasier pulls a stethoscope from her bag, sits as she plugs it into her ears and warms the bell in her hands before sliding it up under Daniel’s pajama top. “Can you turn him over? Without waking him?”

“He’s out now, the only thing that wakes him out of this sleep is a nightmare,” I offer from the doorjamb.

Carter turns the small, pliant body easily, running a hand over his hair again as he stirs just a little. 

We’re silent as Janet does a quick exam, takes his temperature, and checks pulse and respiration. 

“His temps up a little still, I assume you gave him some aspirin?”

“A regular dose.”

“Any idea what triggered the hysterical thing?”

“I think Carter’s right. He’s exhausted with this whole business of not being able to breath and he’s hardly eating. I think it just got too overwhelming.”

“He’s coped really well with the loss of his parents, don’t you think?” Carter says to the room at large. “I don’t know, it doesn’t seem particularly unusual to me that a kid would have a melt down like this under the circumstances.”

“You’re right, Sam. He has coped incredibly well, but that may have something to do with being six and the fact that though his world has changed dramatically, it’s still rock solid. You’ve all done a marvelous job of making sure he’s aware of that.”

“Carter mentioned earlier this evening she thinks Daniel’s memories may still be there, just dormant. You think that’s possible, Doc?”

“We’re dealing with alien technology here, Colonel. You know as well as I do, anything’s possible.”

“I guess I was wondering if Daniel’s coped so well because on some level he’s aware that we really _are_ his family.”

Frasier looks over at me with a shrug. “Does it matter?”

“Right – of course not; what was I thinking.” I shove off the doorjamb. “So, anybody up for coffee?”

“Doctorfrasier, would you be amenable to dropping off Majorcarter so I may return with her vehicle to the SGC? O’Neill has tasked us with a project I would like to begin gathering data on this evening if possible.”

“Sure, Teal’c,” the doc responds, rising and turning to give Carter a pull up off the bed. “What project?”

“I think we’re going to home school Daniel,” I offer, testing the water. 

“That’s great!” the doc exclaims and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Whose brilliant idea was that?”

Carter and I exchange a glance, grin, and point at each other. 

“His.”

“Hers.”

“We both came up with the idea independently. And the colonel suggested we try to connect with other parents who are home schooling, maybe set up or join a group so Daniel still gets to socialize with kids his own age.”

“I think it’s a marvelous idea,” Frasier enthuses. “Let me know what I can do. And I can take Sam home, Teal’c, no problem.” 

She turns and scoops up Daniel while Carter turns down the covers, tucks him in and taps the lamp base to lower the light.

“This is exactly why he knows his world is still rock solid,” she says as we all stoop over the small form and kiss him goodnight on our way out. 

Even Teal’c cradles the small blond head for a moment and drops a kiss on the still warm forehead.

“We can pick you up in the morning, Carter,” I offer, heading for the kitchen and the coffee maker.

Teal’c bids his adieu’s as the doc and Carter settle in at the kitchen table. 

I let my mind wander as my hands automatically begin the mundane task of making coffee. Hazardous duty pay? They damn well better continue to pay Daniel the differential. As for me, yeah, occasionally in the heat of the moment it feels like hazardous duty. What if I do something wrong? What if I screw this up for him? What if I’m not cut out to be a parent at all?

What if . . .

On the other hand, what if I can give him the security he missed the first time around? What if we can plug some of those holes life drilled into him from the time he was eight? What if this is a second chance for both of us?

Hazardous duty pay?

I chuckle, which garners strange looks from the women at the table, especially since I have no idea what they’ve been talking about.

“Just thinking about hazardous duty pay,” I offer, handing over mugs before setting crème and sugar on the table. “I figure I’ll apply for it about the time he hits sixteen. Whatta’ ya think?”

~*~

_Disclairmer: This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The Stargate characters, settings and universe are the property of Kawoosh Productions, Showtime/Viacom, Sony/MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. The story itself, and the original characters, are the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._  



	4. Operation Sandbox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apolgies, this is the 4th installment in the FoY series, but labeled Chapter 2 because of my inept posting skills. Daniel is homesick and Jack enlists the entire SGC to create an extra special birthday gift.

The Fountain of Youth Series 

OPERATION SANDBOX

 

“Daniel?” I close the newspaper, splash the water to get his attention and straighten up from my seat on the closed toilet. “Earth to Daniel?” I splash again, a little more forcefully.

The blue eyes pop open and he sits up abruptly, splashing bubbles and water over the side of the tub like a small tsunami, sputtering as he tries to rub stinging bubble bath from his eyes.

“Sorry, bud.” I grab a washcloth, wet it in the sink and hand it to him.

It’s bath time in the O’Neill/Jackson household. The usual nightly routine involves five minutes of my prompting as he bathes - you know, the usual parental stuff; wash behind your ears, yes you have to use soap on your face, yes you have to wash your private parts every day, don’t eat the soap, Daniel, it’s supposed to smell good. I told you not to eat it; it’s not supposed to taste good. 

And then twenty minutes of play time. This can involve anything from building bubble replicas of the Giza plateau, which is really difficult if you don’t buy expensive bubble bath since the bubbles tend to burst before the Great Pyramid is totally completed, to mock battles that tend to leave the bathroom floor, fixtures, and rug sopping wet.

Tonight he was doing his floating thing. He tells me he learned it from watching the crocodiles in the Nile, the way they lay on the water like floating logs. His adaptation involves lying submerged on his back with just his nose out of the water so that all the hurly burly sounds he’s had to get used to here disappear and he can call back the sights and sounds of Egypt and the Nile, at least in memory. 

Daniel is homesick. 

He misses the hot, dry climate; doesn’t like the cold here, though the temperature is already in the 60's regularly. Those of us who’ve lived here for any length of time tend to think it’s downright balmy at 60 degrees.

He misses the bazaars, the wide open spaces of the desert, the bright canopy of stars he’s used to seeing on the digs. He feels hemmed in here, claustrophobic in this densely forested part of the world where mountains form the horizon every way you look and our slice of the sky is dimmed by the artificial lights of Colorado Springs. He’s not even impressed with the view from the top of Cheyenne Mountain at night, it can’t begin to compare with his desert canvas. 

I’ll have to give him that. There’s nothing like the panoramic canvas of a desert sky, especially during a meteor shower.

I think next to missing his parents, he misses digging the most. I can’t do anything about missing his parents, but I can do something about the digging. And that’s where Operation Sandbox comes in.

“Ready to get out?”

“Okay.” He stands up streaming water likes it’s his natural element. You’d think this kid was a merman the way he’s taken to water. Running water and tub baths are a luxury he never had the opportunity to get used to. Oh, he bathed in a tub all right; a tin tub, next to a fire if he was lucky, with heated water if he was extra lucky. And washed dishes in the same tub two or three times a day, so the dishwasher is like a magic box as far as he’s concerned.

I hand him a towel.

He scrubs his face, swipes at his hair, then wraps the towel around his shoulders, holding it with one hand as he gingerly steps over the tub surround onto the rug. He stands, towel now gripped in both hands, huddled on the rug, looking at me and shivering. 

“You gonna dry off tonight? Or are you planning to get into your pajamas all wet like that?”

“Jack?”

Uh oh. That tone of voice always prefaces something uncomfortable for one of us, usually me. “What?” I ask briskly, taking the hint and snagging two fingers in the edge of the towel, pulling him between my knees.

“Do I have to have a birthday tomorrow?” His voice is muffled as I currently have the towel over his head, drying his hair.

Of their own volition, my hands still. “Uhm – it’s kind of hard not to have a birthday, Daniel. They come whether we want them to or not. I suppose we don’t have to celebrate it.” I lower the towel, turn him around so we’re face to face again, and wrap it back around his waist. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs, sliding his fingers down inside the towel, leaving his thumbs cocked over the edges. “I don’t think I want to have a birthday this year.”

“No birthday at all? You got a plan?”

“Plan?” he parrots, snaking an arm around my neck as I scoop him up and deposit him in front of the kid-sized dresser. Sara’s lent it to us . . . out of Charlie’s room. 

“You know, a plan. Like are you planning to keep telling people you’re six for another year and then next year you’ll be eight? Skip seven all together? Or are you going to stay six and turn seven next year?”

“Oh.” He rummages through the drawer, pulls out underwear and socks, drops his towel and his ass to the floor and pulls on these items of clothing before getting up to drag his pajamas out from under his pillow. He sits down on the side of the bed to pull on the bottoms, baby teeth nibbling at his lip. “Well, they’re really the same thing aren’t they?”

“I guess the more important question would be - why don’t you want to have a birthday?” I sit down on the foot of the bed, plant my feet and lean forward, elbows on my knees.

“Just don’t,” he says, voice muffled again as he slides the pajama top over his head.

Daniel is very articulate, especially for a six, okay, seven-year-old. When he isn’t being articulate, there’s always a reason. 

We’ve talked about this birthday thing on and off for the last three weeks. While I’m not especially known for my smarts like Carter and Daniel, I do occasionally manage to rub two thoughts together, or whatever the hell that cliché is. 

Anyway, I think especially for this birthday, Daniel needs to be in charge. 

In the normal course of events he would be turning forty this year and maybe next year he’ll be turning forty-one, if Carter or one of our so-called allies can figure out a way to reverse this. And then again, maybe next year he’ll be turning eight. 

Tomorrow he’s turning seven - for the second time around. So, it occurred to me despite the fact Daniel’s doing seven again on his Karmic wheel-of-fortune, this birthday still has a significant number of firsts involved: the first birthday without his parents, this time around; his first birthday since he was downsized by the magic box everybody’s referring to as the Fountain of Youth – there will be no fountains at this birthday party tomorrow, nor any magic boxes, though I hope there will be plenty of magic; the first birthday in the land of his heritage, if not the land of his birth, this time around; the first birthday of this new life he’s just beginning to learn to negotiate as an adolescent - for the second time around. 

That’s a lot of firsts for a little guy, is it any wonder he’s thinking maybe he should just skip this one? 

“Do you want to cancel the party tomorrow?”

He’s on his knees in front of the bookshelf now. He turns his head, studies me over his shoulder for a second, then returns to the task at hand - choosing a book. “I think if we cancel the party people will be disappointed.” His finger hovers over the spine of a Golden Book, touches it briefly, then moves on. 

How many times have I watched Daniel do this in his office? Admittedly, he’s usually hurriedly trying to figure out what books he might need on our next trip through the Gate, but this is so familiar it’s painful.

“Would you be disappointed?” 

He stills for a moment, hands on his knees, chin dropped to his chest. “I don’t know,” he says very softly.

“If you don’t want to do this, it’s okay. How ‘bout this for an option? Let’s have a party on Saturday instead of tomorrow. We’ll call it an un-birthday party. Would you rather do that?”

He hasn’t moved a muscle, which tells me he’s probably fighting tears for all he’s worth. I know eventually he’ll let me in, but this is private now, too intense to share. This too is so reminiscent of adult Daniel, it hurts. 

I wait. It’s the only thing I can do.

Instead of pulling out a book he eventually pushes up off the floor, plods back over to the bed and climbs into my lap. “I miss them so much,” he says, knuckling at tears he doesn’t want to shed. “I don’t want to have a birthday without my mom and dad.”

I’ve held a grieving thirty-something Daniel - when he lost Sha’re. I’ve held a terrified, lost Daniel - when he mislaid his sanity in the sarcophagus on Shyla’s planet. The only difference now is he’s at least hundred pounds lighter and about three feet shorter. 

He’s still our Daniel.

So I hold . . . and rock . . . and rock . . . and hold . . . and soothe as best I can without empty words or promises, until he’s calm again and that ring-finger, comfort-chewing thing is happening. He’s usually ready to talk by the time the finger goes in the mouth.

“So, do you think having a party on Saturday would be better? I have to tell you, a lot of people have put a lot of effort into choosing presents for you, so ya know, it really wouldn’t be fair not to let them bring presents.”

“Presents?” he repeats, in a rather desultory voice. 

“Though I suppose we could tell them to save them for Christmas or maybe next year.”

“It’s only five months ‘til Christmas,” he offers, as if in agreement.

“You want to wait that long to open presents?”

I can’t see, but I can imagine the little grimace he gets when he’s thinking something over. And he is giving this serious thought, which just reiterates how deeply the loss of his parents has affected him.

“I don’t think so.” He sits up and leans back to look up at me. “Stop that, your eyes will stick that way,” he laughs, smacking a tiny hand at my chest when I cross my eyes and look down my nose at him.

I’ve accomplished what I intended, so I blink and lean back against the headboard. “So then? Are we having this party tomorrow, or Saturday?”

“Tomorrow’s good,” he says, and the smile only droops a little. “It would be inconvenient to try and change everything around at the last minute.”

“You’re sure? ‘Cause inconvenient or not, we all want this to be a good day for you.” Where the hell has he picked a word like inconvenient? Want to bet he can use it correctly in several languages?

“Is it okay to be sad, like maybe just a little bit, even on a good day?”

“Yes, Daniel.” I give him a squeeze. Can’t help it, ya gotta love this kid. “It’s perfectly acceptable to be a little bit sad, even on a good day.” 

“Jack?”

“Yes, Daniel?”

“What have you been doing in the garage?”

“If I tell you,” I tickle him lightly, “I’ll have to shoot you.”

Daniel giggles. “It’s a secret?”

“Well, it won’t be if I tell you.” I increase the pressure just enough to make him writhe a little.

He wriggles off my lap, arms clamped to his sides, giggling madly now, and curls into a ball. So I latch onto a squirming foot and tickle the bottom of it. He’s huffing and panting and pulling on his foot, but not hard enough to want to get away; however, when he howls, “Stop, Jack!” I stop immediately. It’s one of the rules. If someone says stop, it stops immediately whether they mean it or not. 

I pull him, by a foot, back across the bed, scoop him up again and this time deposit him under the covers. “If we’re going to read, I get to pick the book now.”

“Okay,” he agrees, happily snuggling down into the pillow. “Jack, that’s a baby book,” he huffs, when I pull a Golden Book off the shelf.

“So? I still like them. And so do you.”

He rolls his eyes at me, but doesn’t argue further. The finger sneaks back into his mouth as he scoots around so he can read along. “Donald Duck’s Best Birthday Ever.” He looks up at me with that heart stopping smile he occasionally let’s sneak out. “Is the secret in the garage for me?”

“That would be telling.” And those tactics are so not fair, young man. 

We laugh our way through the story. Commiserate with Daisy when she can’t keep nosy Donald out of the way long enough to complete the surprise party arrangements, cheer loudly when Goofy finally hits the bull’s eye and dunks Mickey, and roll on the bed when Pluto wants to eat Miss Minnie’s flowered hat instead of birthday cake.

I slide the book back into the bookcase, turn the lamp on top of the dresser to low, and sit back down on the edge of the bed. We haven’t even bothered to try sleeping with the lights out yet.

“Thank you, Jack.”

“For what? Reading the story?”

“I know you’re trying to make this a good birthday for me.” 

There are times when I could swear he’s channeling adult Daniel. I mean really, what six-year-old is gonna come out with a statement like that? What six-year-old, for that matter, has the reasoning skills to figure that out? And how the hell am I supposed to respond?

“Hey - I love you.”

The eyes pop wide. “You do?” He claps a hand over his mouth in surprise.

I have to smile. “Of course I do.” 

I bend an elbow, lean down to kiss him goodnight and a small arm wraps around my neck, pulling me down. He hugs tight for a second, cheek to cheek, then lets go and pats my face lightly, again with the heart stopping smile.

And now he’s channeling Charlie for God’s sake!

“Sweet dreams, Sport. Think about all those presents you’re gonna get tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He lets me snug the covers up around his neck. “Night, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Daniel.” 

* * *

 

Our Littlest Ancient is running on fumes, but happy as a lark. 

He’s had his introspective moments. He climbed into Carter’s lap once and let her hold him for quite awhile while he just watched. But he’s been running around like a wild thing since he got down.

Teal’c, Siler, Davis, (our Gate tech Davis, not Major Davis) Cassie, Daniel, Tessa, Kayla and George are all involved in a hybrid hide and seek/water gun battle game. Which means there’s lots of sneaking around corners and shrieking when someone gets caught and blasted. Daniel’s soaked, as is Cassie, but so is Teal’c. 

Siler, Davis and Cassie are holed up together behind a barricade, while Teal’c and Hammond are leading the rest of the forces in a sneak attack from behind the fence.

Carter and the doc have taken a breather, they’re watching the action from the Adirondack chairs on the deck, chatting lazily and variously booing, cat calling or yelling encouragement depending on which side Daniel is on at the moment. 

Half a dozen other SGC personnel are lounged around the yard as well and there’s a relatively large card game going on in the family room. 

“Hey, you guys!” I holler from my spot at the grill. “You need to wind it down. If we don’t do presents soon, it’s gonna be too dark!”

Carter sits up immediately, grinning. “Oh goody!” She’s practically rubbing her hands together. 

Although I’ve been nominally in charge of this covert op, partly because it was originally my idea and partly because it’s going in my back yard, Carter’s really been the brainchild behind it.

Daniel’s big present, from the rest of SG-1, is a sandbox. 

But this isn’t just any sandbox. It’s a budding archeologist’s dream sandbox. My original idea was to build a portable sandbox that could be moved between the garage and the backyard so he could use it all year round. However, the minute Carter heard the word sandbox, it turned into an HGTV Monster House project.

Carter can’t wait to open presents. I think she’s more excited about this than Daniel.

There’s a last flurry of activity, followed by shouts of triumph, maniacal laughter and shrieks of threatened revenge next time around, before the gang troops up on the deck, shedding bazookas and protective eye gear. 

All courtesy of General Hammond and his granddaughters. Their birthday present to Daniel was to outfit the entire crowd with water guns and sports glasses. 

It’s been the hit of the party so far.

Carter’s sure her sandbox is gonna top it. I’m pretty sure she’s right. At least once Daniel figures out what’s in there.

I stick my head back inside to announce presents to the inside contingent who all come streaming out. “Food’s ready, too, grab a plate and eat while Daniel opens.”

The pile of presents is almost a tall as Daniel. He stands looking at them for several long seconds, before looking over at me in wonder.

Carter swoops down to drop a kiss on top of his head. “Yes, Daniel, they are all for you.” She drops down on the deck and pulls him back into her lap. “Come on, you aren’t going to get to the good stuff before dark if you take too long to open these.” She hands him the closest present then leans around to watch him open it.

“Who taught this kid how to open presents?” Ferretti hollers, hauling out a knife that looks like it belonged to Crocodile Dundee. “Here Major, give him this.”

“Not while he’s in my lap, Major.” But Carter does take pity on the crowd and tears a little bit of the paper to give him a head start. “You don’t have to save the paper, Daniel, okay?”

Among the loot he gets, which is enough to fill at least two closets, are a couple of gifts I know Daniel will cherish for the rest of his life. One is an exquisite child-sized set of archeological tools, handmade by a master craftsman and wood burned with Daniel’s initials. Sergeant Siler, our jack-of-all-trades at Stargate Command, can turn his hand to just about anything. The fact these were made in the SGC wood shop will one day make them that much more valuable to Daniel. 

The other is Janet’s gift. I can’t begin to imagine when she ever found the time, although since Daniel’s no longer gating with us regularly we spend a lot less time in the infirmary. She made him a quilt. In the middle of it is a large, delicately hand-embroidered pyramid. On either side of the pyramid is a matched pair of embroidered golden sphinxes. And proportionately in the background are the two lesser pyramids in the shadow of the great pyramid. It’s museum quality art, stunningly beautiful, and it breathes Egypt. This will have to go on the wall in his room. 

Daniel just stares at it, stroking it over and over, until Carter turns his attention to the last present. 

The honkin’ big one in the yard. 

We went out to breakfast this morning so Carter, Teal’c, Siler and their crew could move it out of the garage into the back yard. It’s currently covered in wrapping paper sporting little green aliens in space ships, with large blue bows tossed into the middle of each of the boxes. They literally wrapped each box as they set the thing up. 

Moving this thing is going take a U-haul and several semi’s every winter and spring. Just from the back yard to the garage and vice versa! 

This sandbox is built in four tiers, with a series of steps built into the three lower tiers. I know it’s hard to picture, but Carter designed it so each tier flows into the next, with the fourth tier being the lowest and wrapping from the left front corner of the first tier, to the middle of the front of the third tier. The first tier is about three feet high, just a little shorter than Daniel is tall. The second is two feet deep, the third, a foot and a half, and the fourth is twelve inches deep. 

As if the sandbox itself weren’t a work of art, Teal’c decided he needed to get in on the act, too, and did a whole bunch of research on the Jackson display at the New York Museum of Art. So, buried at the bottom of these tiers of sand box are variously: an entire scale model of the burial chamber, yes, the one that crushed his parents. I’m hoping since he didn’t see it this time around, by the time he digs it up, the trauma of knowing will have faded. A miniature sarcophagus, minus the Goa’uld, funerary statues of every shape and size imaginable, platters, goblets, urns, shields, there’s even a miniature chariot, authentic down to the spoke-wheels, Teal’c built. There are tiny strings of beads, pots for unguents and cosmetics, an itty bitty antiqued mirror and at least two feather fans. Everything an ancient Egyptian would need to descend into the underworld with the proper accouterments.

And that’s just the top tier. The third tier has an entire village buried under its sand, complete with the village well. Teal’c wanted to build an aqueduct and a communal bath, but we convinced him that was the Romans. In the second tier, they built a scale model of a pyramid in progress, along with all the machinery and tools that would have been used to build the pyramid, as well as the construction materials. He’ll be digging up tiny mortared bricks until he’s ninety. The lowest tier has a bunch of authentic artifacts buried in it. Things we took out of Daniel’s office, after I cleared it with his esteemed colleagues. I didn’t want anything buried in there that could be further harmed by exposure to the elements.

Not that Carter would let this sandbox be exposed to the elements. She designed covers for each of the tiers that can be easily attached or detached. Not necessarily by a seven-year-old, but heck, after the hours and hours and hours she and Teal’c put in on this project, I can uncover and cover the thing for awhile. 

Oh, you’re wondering what I did for this project, besides foot the majority of the bill? And swing a hammer over the course of several evenings? All the miniature pottery type things buried in there came off the wheel that took up residence at the SGC during a certain still unmentionable time loop. Since taking up pottery I’ve learned a few things about modeling clay as well. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to work with something the size of the tip of your little finger?

Daniel’s walking around it again, trying to figure out where to start. Teal’c swoops him up and puts him down, feet first, through the paper in the top tier. For a moment, Daniel just looks chagrined, then with encouragement from the crowd, bends over to peer under the paper. 

I never thought of it, but I sure hope somebody’s videoing this. When he looks up again, still bent double, those saucers he turned on me down in the infirmary in the Honduras? Not even close. There’s no face left when Daniel looks up now. He’s all eyes. 

Don’t ask me how and I’ll probably forget to ask how by the time this is over, but they managed to get Siler’s set of tools under the wrapping paper. 

Oh yeah, got my very own MasterCard moment here. The look on his face is priceless.

He rips off the paper on the top tier, surveys the crowd, spots Tessa, Kayla and Cassie hanging together and waves them down. “Come help!” he hollers, gingerly poking his tennis-shoed foot through the next layer of paper. 

The girls tumble off the deck and into the sandbox as well, ripping and tearing with glee. Daniel hops down to the first tier and passes out shovels, taking up the small scree pan, and a shovel and pail. Tessa kneels primly beside him to watch what he’s doing and he soon has her carrying buckets of sand to and fro to the dump site, now located in the third tier. It’s not long before a squeal of pure delight rends the air.

Carter, sitting on the edge of the sandbox, hands Daniel a brush. She knows the routine, she’s watched him do this several hundred times at least, on some Goa’uld forsaken planet out in space. 

Daniel looks up, sees it’s Sam who’s thoughtfully provided just the tool he needs and his face splits with a wide grin. Without warning he launches himself at her as only a six-year-old – apologies – seven-year-old can do.

She catches him with an ooomph and a matching grin of her own.

He hugs her hard, pulls back and says, “This is what you and Jack and Teal’c have been working on in the garage, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Daniel. This is what we’ve been working on. We made it so it can be moved back into the garage in the fall when it gets cold again, so you’ll be able to play in it all year round. So you like it?”

“I love it,” he shouts ecstatically. “You made it so I can practice being an archeologist?”

“Actually we made it just so you could have fun, you don’t have to practice anything. You’re already an archeologist, Sport.” She gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek, which he enthusiastically returns. “And just so you know, although this sandbox is a present from the Colonel, Teal’c and me, lots of other people were involved in putting it together for you.” She looks up, sweeping the crowd visually. “In fact, I think everybody here had a hand either in creating this, or making something that went into it.”

For a moment he looks up at the crowded deck, then ducks his head shyly and buries his face in Carter’s neck. She jostles him lightly and he pulls back enough to whisper something in her ear, before hiding his face again.

Grinning, Carter looks over at us. “Daniel says to tell you all thank you.” Her grin turns slightly puzzled, then panicked as she looks to me.

Must be tears. I’m not interfering. They won’t last long, and hey, it’s her turn to be baptized for a change. Besides, she was great with him last time he had a meltdown. 

The girls all gather round to pet and comfort. Cassie is eighteen and at the Academy. She and Daniel will probably work together someday in the Stargate program, if he decides to stick with the SGC this time around. Who knows, he may be sick of the Gate by the time he’s grown again and go back to archeology. Though I suspect if he goes back to archeology, it will be off world somewhere. Tessa is fourteen going on thirty-three and Kayla is twelve. 

It’s not long before they coax him back into the sandbox and he’s happily using the brush Carter handed him, carefully whisking sand away from around the small vase he uncovered.

Teal’c takes the cake to him in the sandbox, where he pauses briefly to blow out the candles, then gets right back down to the serious business of unearthing that vase. Its half way out already and he’s determined to have it out before he’s done for the night. We’ll put it in a place of honor on top of the dresser. Probably have to add another set of shelves in there shortly to display all his finds.

By the time the party debris is cleared away, the back yard returned to some semblance of order and the sandbox covered, it’s nearly ten o’clock. 

Long past bedtime for my kiddo. 

Got to have a bath. He’s coated in sand from head to toe, not to mention cake and any other detritus that happened to stick to him. He’s also asleep on Teal’c’s shoulder. So Teal’c gets assigned to bath duties while Carter and I tackle the kitchen. And I’m wondering if Daniel will let Teal’c perform those ablutions.

When half an hour later I still haven’t heard any raised voices and the kitchen and the rest of the house have been returned to their usual pristine condition - sue me, I like a clean house - I go in search of the oldest and youngest members of SG-1. 

Carter trails along, so we both get the benefit of another MasterCard moment.

Teal’c is half sprawled on Daniel’s bed, back against the headboard, one foot propped against the footboard, the other braced on the floor. A freshly bathed, newly-minted, seven-year-old Daniel is sprawled across Teal’c’s chest, ring finger in his mouth, occasionally busily chewing, but for the most part snuffling away - this incarnation of Daniel doesn’t snore so much as snuffle. 

Priceless. 

I snap a mental photo, store it on my very own brand of indelible Kodak paper and download it to the place where I’m archiving little Daniel pictures. 

Carter bends over to kiss Daniel and her hair tickles Teal’c awake. 

Although he is awake instantly, he doesn’t move a muscle, not even a flinch of the arm anchoring the Littlest Ancient against him. Carter smiles and plants a kiss on Teal’c too and is rewarded with a slight smile from the Jaffa.

“Night, Teal’c, I’m gonna go home. Thanks for all your help on the sandbox,” she whispers, caressing the smooth, childish cheek with just a finger. Daniel stirs a little at her touch, but doesn’t wake.

“Goodnight, Majorcarter. It was my honor to participate in Operation Sandbox. I believe Danieljackson will gain many hours of pleasure from pursing his passion in the beautiful arena you have provided for him.”

“I think so too, but I couldn’t have done it without your help, Teal’c, and you, too, sir. It was a ball. I really enjoyed getting to build something purely for the fun of it. And seeing Daniel’s excitement made every second worthwhile.”

“You did good, Major. Real good.”

“Thank you, sir. But I think we all did good. We’re going to have a hard time not spoiling him, sir.”

“Ya think?” I chuckle. “He’s had a really solid start in life, Carter. I doubt it will be any hardship raising Daniel Jackson, look how he turned out despite all those years of foster homes the last time around. Surely we can’t do any worse by him?”

“I’m not giving up on finding a way to reverse this, sir.”

I can do Teal’c too. “Indeed?” 

Teal’c lifts a mobile eyebrow and rumbles softly, with his usual keen insight, “No one is implying you should Majorcarter, merely that if we cannot return Danieljackson to his former state, he will not suffer from lack of love, is that not so, O’Neill?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. Thank you, Teal’c. You sleeping here with Daniel or you want to put him to bed?”

“I believe if my speaking did not wake him, then moving will not either.” So saying, Teal’c sits up slowly, turns with his small burden, and in one smooth, economic motion transfers the small, pliant body from his chest to under the covers. 

Daniel doesn’t miss a snuffle. 

None of us have ever been the kind of sappy adults that coo over babies, but I have to tell you, there’s a collective sigh as our trio turns to leave the room and I catch both Carter and Teal’c looking over their shoulders. 

We exchange semi-guilty glances, grin sheepishly and part company with the assurance that just down the hall our Littlest Ancient is sleeping soundly, probably dreaming of the all artifacts he’s going to discover in the course of his lifetime. 

I did a little groundwork before the party this afternoon. I didn’t want anybody prompting Daniel to make birthday wishes. There was no need to remind him today that wishes don’t always come true. 

So tonight, as I stand in my door watching Teal’c and Carter pull out of the driveway, listening as the sound of Carter’s little foreign job dies away, I look up, pick the first star I see and make a wish for Daniel . . . for a long and prosperous life, filled with all the happiness he missed the first time around.

I’m fully aware wishes don’t always come true, but it never hurts to keep trying.

Does it?

~*~

_Disclaimer: This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The Stargate characters, settings and universe are the property of Kawoosh Productions, Showtime/Viacom, Sony/MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._


	5. I See Dead People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures have become SOP in the O'Neill/Jackson household, but an adventure to the cemetery to visit Charlie's grave? Jack's not so sure about this one. Thanks to Eryn, the FoY chapters are now posted in their proper order!

The Fountain of Youth series

I See Dead People 

“Jack?”

“What?” I answer automatically, hit the send key, glance at the new on-line balance in the checkbook and move on to the next portfolio to see what the latest market conditions are forecasting.

“If I die, will I be with my parents?”

“What?” That gets my attention. I look over at Daniel who’s on the floor beside the desk building something with Lego’s. “What did you just ask me?” We’ve been in my office here at home for more than an hour, me working on the computer and Daniel playing quietly on the floor.

“If I die will I be with my parents?”

This is so out of the blue I’m sucking air. “Uh . . . why?” Top that, Doctor Phil. 

He crowns his creation with a final top heavy piece and leans back on his hands, watching it sway and finally topple before he looks over at me. “I just wondered. Do you think they’re with Charlie now?”

He certainly has my full and undivided attention, which may have been his entire purpose. He’s occasionally sneaky that way. “I’ve never thought about it,” I hedge, wondering if he really wants to know what I believe, or if he’s just looking for attention.

Which begs the question do I even know what I believe anymore? Because explaining how I feel about God, death, and taxes to a seven-year-old may be a bit more complicated than I’m willing to tackle.

“Do you think they’re in heaven?”

“If you mean floating around on a cloud, playing a harp, kind of heaven? Then no, I don’t think that.” I’m careful to use his terms. Don’t really want the word believe floating around out there.

“Where do you think they are?”

“I don’t know, Daniel. What makes you ask?”

He shrugs, pushes up off the floor and comes to stand at the end of the desk, leaning both elbows on the top, his chin in his cupped hands. “What’s it like to be dead? Does it hurt?”

“It’s never hurt any of the times I’ve been dead, at least not while I was dead, only before and after.” I remember the first time fairly clearly, when the Nox resurrected us. I remember the first time with Baal more clearly than I’d like too. “I don’t beli – think – “ I restate, “I don’t think dead people feel anything.”

He catches me off guard, because I really expect the next question to be - you’ve been dead? Instead he asks, “If I died and went to heaven, do you think my parents would be happy to see me?”

Now there’s a loaded question. 

“I think if they’re in any kind of state to know what’s going on down here, if Charlie and your parents are watching over us, they would be very sad if you or I died.”

“Charlie wouldn’t be happy to see you?”

Oh yeah, my full and undivided attention. “Daniel, I honestly don’t know the answers to these questions.”

“So then, you don’t think my parents would be happy to see me?”

Well hell, why wouldn’t they be? However, I’m not telling him that. Think diversion, O’Neill. “Want to go for a ride?”

He gives me ‘the look’. “Where?”

It’s not that Daniel is easily distracted, only that I can distract him easily. He always comes back to whatever it is he’s driving at in the end. 

“Let’s take a trip over to Charlie’s grave. Maybe if he’s hanging around he’ll come talk to us and answer our questions.”

For a moment longer, Daniel eyes me. “Okay,” he says, not in the least bit intimidated by the thought. Like I said, our Littlest Ancient is open to the universe in ways it’s difficult for the rest of us to comprehend. 

So now I’ve backed myself into a corner. I’m not sure what I was after with that invitation - whether I wanted to shut him off, or maybe motivate myself. 

It was adult Daniel who drug me to Charlie’s grave to make peace with the demons haunting my nightmares - what? Six, seven years ago? Before we were even really good friends. I haven’t been back since Dr. Jackson chose to ascend.

As if by accident the finger slides into his mouth and I realize he’s not as copasetic as I supposed. He’s chewing. Carter says that means he’s anxious.

“Hey, it was just a thought, we don’t have to go. I just thought maybe . . .” I push the chair back from the desk. “You know what, Sport; I really don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Daniel scoots around the desk and sidles back up against my knees. Without Carter’s help, I’ve figured out this means ‘hold me, please’. It’s often accompanied by a look over his shoulder if I don’t comply fast enough. 

So I pick him up, swivel the chair around so we’re looking out the window into the back yard, put both arms around him and rest my chin lightly on his head as he leans back against my shoulder. “When Charlie first died, I often wondered where he was, if he knew what was going on down here. Is this another one of those things you’ve been thinking about for awhile?”

Daniel says nothing, but he nods, almost imperceptibly, which means he’s been thinking about it for a long time and has very deep feelings about it. I pull his finger gently from his mouth, dry it off on his shirt, kiss it, and tuck his hand into mine.

A very clear and sharp memory jumps up to bite me; of Sarah telling me all baby drool is just sugar water. Yeah right, drool is drool, whether it’s on a seven-month-old, or a seven-year-old. I draw the line at kissing wet, drooly fingers. 

“There are lots of different religious beliefs surrounding death. Did you ever go to church, Daniel?” I know he didn’t, but I want this to be a conversation, not a lecture. 

He shakes his head. I can see a slight reflection of us in the window and I know he’s paying attention, though he’s very still in my lap. 

“Some people think when a person dies, their soul goes to heaven, but their physical body decomposes. Do you know what that word means?’

“Uh huh, like when there’s just dust inside the wrappings of the mummies.”

“Yeah, like the dust left inside the preserved shell of the mummy. Other people think death is like a very long sleep; both the physical body and the soul rest together in the grave. Others think the body and soul are reincarnated in another life. Sometimes even another life form.”

“Re - in - car ... what?“

“nated,” I supply. “Reincarnated.”

“What’s re-in-car-nated?”

“Well, it would be kind of like living over and over again, but without the memories of your past lives.”

“You mean like what happened to me?”

“Kinda sort of, only the people who believe in reincarnation believe you die and are born again into another body.”

“Oh.” Daniel spots our reflection in the window and gives me a small smile and a wave when he realizes I’m watching us too. “The ancient Egyptians believed your heart had to be weighed against a feather to see if you were allowed to go on to the underworld.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen that ceremony.”

“You have?” Daniel sits up interestedly. “Where?” He twists so he’s looking up at me directly.

Good one, O’Neill. And the reason you didn’t see that one coming from a mile away? 

“On another planet, where the culture is similar to ancient Egyptian culture.”

“There’s a planet like Egypt?” 

Oh goody, at least it’s working as a distraction. “A lot like Egypt,” I reply, “the whole planet is desert. It’s not as big as Earth, but the days there are a lot longer than our Earth days.”

“Why?”

“Because the planet’s sun is a lot closer than ours, which is partly why Abydos is desert.”

“But if it’s closer, wouldn’t that make it go around the planet faster?”

“Abydos orbits its sun, just like we orbit our sun, but that planet moves slower than Earth does in its rotation.” 

With any luck we can stretch out this conversation long enough to move away from death and dying.

“Did you know someone who died on that planet?”

Or not. 

Oh well, it was worth a try. Like I said, I can distract him easily, but he’s not easily distracted.

“Yes, I did. I went to the funeral.”

“Was there a funeral for my parents?”

I can’t say I’m getting used to this channel switching thing he does, but at least I’m getting to the place where I can follow it fairly quickly. “You and I never talked about that when you were big, Daniel, so I don’t know for certain, though I’m sure there was. I believe they’re buried in New York.”

“New York? In the city where they died?”

“I was actually thinking the state of New York, not the city of New York, but I really don’t know.”

“Someday, can I go see where they’re buried?”

“I’m sure we can make arrangements for you to do that.”

“Okay.” He leans back again, grabs my hand with his other hand and tries to work his trapped fingers free. I let him pry one finger loose at a time, just not all of them at once.

He giggles infectiously and tries to wriggle his fingers out. “Are we going to go see Charlie?”

“Yes, lets.” I stand, grab his other hand and let him slide down my leg to the floor, his next favorite game to being whirled around by the ankles by Teal’c. 

I’ve stopped watching that game. I feel like an overprotective mother every time they go into their routine. I’m scared to death Teal’c’s gonna drop him on his head one of these days, though evidently that thought’s never crossed Daniel’s mind. So I close my eyes and wait for the final squeal – or alternatively the sound of Daniel’s brains spilling all over the ground.

“An adventure?” Daniel asks brightly.

“Yeah,” I grin back. “Let’s make it an adventure.”

We’ve had several adventures. Spur of the moment kinds of things where we pick up and go - just because. 

The first one happened kind of accidentally. We’d had a rough couple of weeks - Daniel with nightmares and trying to get his allergy meds straightened out. The rest of SG-1 had just started going off world again and we were still trying to work out what we were going to do with Daniel while we were gone. He was being a cranky, whiney brat because he didn’t feel good and not being particularly compliant for anyone we left him with. In short, we were both exhausted that night.

I’d gotten him to bed, made sure he was sleeping soundly, and headed up to the roof to chill. I’d lost track of all astronomical events. Frankly I’d lost track of the date at that point, so when the meteor shower began, it took me by surprise. I wasn’t even using the telescope, just laying back in one of the chairs watching the sky when it started. 

While we don’t have Daniel’s spectacular desert panorama, it was still a spectacular event. So I went and got him out of bed. We sat out for an hour, wrapped in his comforter, watching the sky fall and counting the star shower. 

I sat for another hour, listening as the night fell asleep right along with Daniel. The hum of the crickets faded, the birds stopped twittering, the breeze died away, even the rustling of the branches stilled as all the little day creatures settled in to sleep before the little night creatures woke and ventured out. 

In the witching hour just between sleeping and waking, I listened to Daniel’s dreams, felt the beat of his heart slow and stretch to match mine, and realized all over again we’re connected in some uniquely powerful way. 

I fell asleep too.

Usually our adventures are spontaneous. One afternoon we followed the mate of an anxious Killdeer, during a break at the top of the Cheyenne Mountain complex. Then back tracked to see if we could find the nest. It was well hidden in the tall grass, just at the edge of the clearing where the picnic tables are ensconced. Mamma Killdeer appeared to be very unhappy her spouse’s excellent broken wing impression hadn’t fooled us. 

One Sunday morning I had an urge to fly, so we kidnapped Carter, Pete, and Teal’c, rented a small prop engine plane, and spent the day air touring Colorado Springs and the surrounding area. For some unknown reason the Aeronautical Board doesn’t recognize space flight hours, so it killed two birds with one stone. I got hours toward keeping my pilot’s license current and Daniel got to see the world from a different perspective. 

Another time we pulled over next to a stream we were passing, got out the fishing tackle I keep in the back of the truck, along with a couple of camp chairs, and spent the afternoon fishing. 

Mostly it’s been things we would never had taken time to do when Daniel was an adult. 

So we’re off on another adventure. I’m curious to see what tonight will bring. 

“Go get a jacket.”

Daniel scampers from the room, shooting a look of pure joy over his shoulder. “This is gonna be so much fun,” he hollers gleefully.

Going to a graveyard at night? I wasn’t really equating this adventure with ‘fun’ so much as . . . well, here we go again, I don’t know what I was equating it with, but I guarantee it wasn’t fun.

Dusk is just beginning to create long shadows as we park in the church parking lot. Sarah and I purposely picked a place where cars aren’t allowed. It’s not a large cemetery, you can walk from one side to the other in about fifteen minutes, probably not even a mile square, but it’s old. The good kind of old, not scary old, and grassy, especially in high summer like this. 

Ancient, knurled trees form archways over many of the paths, spreading branches that tonight shelter thousands of softly twittering birds so the air is full of sound as we wander along the path leading to Charlie’s grave. 

Large patches of wild flowers have been cultivated and family members are encouraged to harvest their bounty so you see very few cellophane-wrapped, super-market offerings decorating the holders and vases attached to many of the headstones.

Daniel pulls at my hand, stopping to wade into the middle of a patch that comes nearly to his waist. He picks a flower here, another two feet over, then several more with apparent randomness, before wading out to latch onto my hand again. We do this several times before he has to let go of my hand to contain the bunch he has. He still wants to stop though and add more.

“Don’t ya think we should leave some for the other folks who visit here?”

Daniel contemplates his armful of flowers and the nearly denuded bed around him. “Won’t they grow back by morning?”

“It takes a little longer than that, Sport. Want me to take those?” No way we could have done this if we hadn’t gotten his allergies under control.

“No,” he says, watching his feet as he detours off the path toward a large ornate headstone almost as tall as he is.

“Harold Rathborn Bailey. Rathborn,” Daniel repeats. “Sounds English. 1902 - 2000. Hey Jack, this man was almost a hundred years old. That’s pretty old, huh?” He squeezes the flower stems into one hand so they bleed sap and reaches to trace a small finger in the groove of the writing. “Beloved Father and Grandfather.” 

This is a very tactile child. 

Did I just hear a duh? 

I could wish he wasn’t quite so curious, but at least at seven I have some control over where he goes and what he does. That was a lot more difficult at forty. 

Which, of course, is what led to Dr. Daniel Jackson’s year long ascension. And now to his being seven instead of forty. 

It occurs to me a healthy dose of fear might not be a bad thing to instill in Daniel Jackson. Or perhaps, more accurately, a healthy comprehension of self-preservation. 

Now. 

While he’s still little. 

And maybe if we can figure out how to counteract this Fountain of Youth thingy he got up close and personal with, it will stick with him this time around and I won’t have to worry so much about Dr. Daniel Jackson. 

Yeah right. Beautiful dreamer . . .

“Look,” he says now, bending at the waist to peer at a moss covered stone embedded in the grass. “Oh,” he folds at the knees, holding the now somewhat squashed bouquet out to the side as he squats, knees to chest, ass to ankles, and brushes away debris from the top of the stone. His finger traces the raised brass lettering. “This is a little girl, Jack. She was only four when she died. See, it says Eloisa Carrera, our Precious Darling.” He rises effortlessly, studies his bouquet for a second and pulls out something pink and dainty. “Here Eloisa,” he says, probably exactly like it’s supposed to sound. “Even though you died a long time ago, you deserve a flower too.” He lays it carefully over the gravestone where no one will step on it accidentally, transfers the mass of flowers to his other hand and reaches up to take my hand again.

Hope there are some Wipes in the car, ‘cause now we both have sticky, sap covered hands. 

“Are we almost there?”

“We have to leave the path in just a few more feet and cut across the grounds right . . . over here.”

We duck under the branches of a weeping willow and find ourselves momentarily enclosed in a leafy bower where dusk has become deep twilight. 

Trapped, or maybe living, inside the bower are thousands of fireflies.

“Oooo,” Daniel says, pulling on my hand. “Faeries!” He stops, lets go, and turns slowly in a circle, head back, gazing in awed fascination at the twinkling specs of light. 

No concert laser display, no fire works, or light show I’ve ever seen can compare to the dizzily twirling, turning, twisting, complex patterns pulsating with light here in the depths of our bower tonight, where Mother Nature, and I don’t mean Oma Desala, is putting on a private exhibition for just the two of us. 

“Then we’d better watch out for orcs and goblins.”

“Oh, no; orcs and goblins live in caves and other places deep inside the earth,” Daniel answers seriously. “They can’t come near a place like this, there’s too much magic here.”

Too much magic here? It’s not magic, it’s the ancientness of the Earth swelling up to enfold one of its own, drawing him into the enchantment. 

Me? I’m just a bystander, a lucky sonuvabitch who just happens to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right companion. 

This wouldn’t have happened if I’d come alone. 

A squadron of fireflies light on the back of Daniel’s closed fist. He lifts it reverently to his face, as if to breathe a blessing on them, slowly opens his hand and spreads his fingers. On cue, the fireflies choose their individual runways and like fighter pilots, launch themselves from the ends of the slender fingers. Moats of dimples crease Daniel’s cheeks as he turns to me with a very gentle smile. “Oooo,” he says again, eyes wide.

I know he eventually grows into the dimples and the eyes, ‘cause I know what he looks like grown up. I’m just wondering how long it’s gonna take, because no one can resist him when he turns those eyes and those dimples on us. Fortunately, for those of us in charge of his welfare, his needs are simple and usually easily met with a hug or a kiss, or sometimes just a smile of understanding. 

I smile now, hold out my hand again, and we meander on, pushing delicately through the trailing branches, raising swarms of fireflies that form into miniature lanterns, then wink out behind us.

Charlie’s grave is set apart from the others, partly because we have two additional plots, partly because we chose this remote corner so we would have some privacy to mourn the loss of our child and eventually, our dreams, though neither Sarah nor I, saw the road we were headed down. 

I was too busy being pigheaded about my own guilt and grief to realize Sarah was trying to reach out to me. That she needed me to share, to mingle my grief with hers. Too busy hiding behind the macho Air Force colonel facade to understand the grief inflicted on our marriage needed an outlet as well. 

Charlie’s headstone is neither large, nor ornate. Daniel takes a moment to arrange his bouquet in the vase that sits on the base of the stone, wipes his sticky hands on his jeans and bends down to pick up the worn leather baseball glove also gracing the base of the stone. After nine years of exposure to snow and ice and rain and sleet and hail, you’d think that glove would have disintegrated. 

Curious that it hasn’t.

It was already well worn when adult Daniel handed it to me when we got out of the car all those years ago. He never gave me any explanation for where he’d found it, or why he’d brought it, just handed it over and said, ‘I’ll be back in awhile,’ plucked the car keys outta my hands, got back in the car and disappeared for two hours.

I wanted to be furious with him; wanted desperately to be mad as hell. Any emotion to fill the empty space that welled up in me when he turned and left me standing there would have been good. I could cheerfully have murdered him in that instant. Fortunately for both of us, I had no weapon but my bare hands and I was sane enough to recognize his death was not worth spending the rest of my life in jail. 

While I wasn’t exactly ready to thank him when he sat down beside me here at Charlie’s grave, I had managed to work out some of the emptiness I was hanging on to needed to get packed up and donated to the Salvation Army. I was holding on to it because it was familiar and comfortable, and like every other red-blooded American male who can’t let go of that worn out shirt in the closet, couldn’t imagine being without it.

“He needs a ball, Jack,” my pint-sized Daniel says now. “It’s hard to play with just a glove.” He smacks a fist into the glove, tries to squeeze it shut and finds his small hand unequal to the task. 

“Next time we come we’ll bring a ball, okay?”

“Okay.” Daniel plops down in the grass next to the headstone and reaches to finger the script here as well. “Charles Jonathan O’Neill, 1983 - 1994. How come there’s nothing else written on here, Jack?”

I lower myself carefully to sit on my heels and reach a hand, like Daniel, to trace the script on the headstone. “I didn’t know what to say,” I hear myself respond in a tone that even to me sounds dull and lifeless. 

“What would you say now?” Daniel prompts after a moment.

It takes a minute to pull it out. “We miss you.”

“Charlie would have liked that.”

“Ya think?” I look up at the change in voice, blink, shake my head, rub my eyes, and drop back on my ass. 

“Hey, Jack.”

Despite the fact he looks real, and solid, I know he can’t be. He’s sitting on the relatively insubstantial headstone, dressed in that damned cream sweater and khaki slacks. Not to mention the fact corporeal little Daniel is sitting two feet from where I smacked down in the evening dew spangled grass.

I get up, shake my head again, ineffectually swipe at my damp ass and look over at my kid. 

Little Daniel has what looks like an old bottle of conditioner and is engrossed in trying to rehab the weather damaged glove. He’s no longer paying the least bit of attention to anything around us and I look back at adult Daniel, who’s also watching little Daniel.

“You’re not dead! What the hell are you doing here?”

“No . . . no, I’m not.” Daniel glances at me, then back at himself with the baseball glove and smiles. “Thanks.” He looks back at me, still smiling. 

I blink again, certain I’m hallucinating, and as positive as I was that day in the elevator that all I took was some aspirin. “For what?”

He shrugs. “For . . . you know . . . this.” He nods in little Daniel’s direction.

For the moment I ignore ‘this’. We’ll get back to that. 

“All right, if you’re not dead, how the hell are you doing this?”

“I’m not. He is.”

“He is?” I parrot dumbly.

“Parlor tricks for an Ancient, Jack. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.” Daniel frowns. “Or would that be I don’t even know I’m doing it?”

“I’m thinking the more pertinent question would be ‘why’ are you doing it?”

“I told you, I’m not. I don’t know why he’s doing it, but I should tell you while I can, it’s okay if you guys can’t figure out how to fix it this time.”

I feel both eyebrows hit the hairline. “You’re good with this? The adult you is okay with this?” I repeat incredulously.

Daniel shrugs. “It’s incredibly freeing actually.”

I borrow a Daniel mannerism, cross my arms over my chest, close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “How so?” I inquire as mildly as possible.

“Well, for one thing he’s got so much less baggage he’s carrying around. He feels . . . no . . . I feel a lot lighter.”

“We noticed that.” I drop my hand, open my eyes again. “And?” 

“And what?”

“And what else? Surely that’s not enough to make this okay. Daniel, you’re seven!”

“Kinda cute, huh?”

Little Daniel chooses that moment to look up and smile at me. Swear to God it’s the exact same smile on his counterpart’s face. And then he’s immersed again, uselessly trying to work conditioner into the ruined leather. 

“Can you get to the point here?”

“There is no point. I don’t know why he’s doing this. Wonder how long he can keep it up?”

“Knowing you, indefinitely. Are you telling me you want to stay little?”

“Uhm . . .” 

It sure looks like he’s giving it some thought. 

“Not really,” he says finally. “I’d be just as happy to be big again.”

“And? So?” I repeat, watching adult Daniel fiddle with the translucent woven fishing line that encircles the little finger on his left hand.

“Jack, I don’t have an agenda.”

“Are you doing this with Carter and Teal’c too?”

“Hello? I’m not doing this,” Daniel repeats emphatically. 

“Why here? Why now?”

Daniel steals back his pose; arms crossed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I really hate it when you don’t listen to me.” He looks up with that ‘oh wow’ look of discovery. “See, that’s another good thing going on here, you’ve learned to listen to him.”

“I listen to you,” I grumble, thinking ‘ouch’.

“Yeah, you did, for about two weeks after I got back.”

“That’s not true . . . it was at least a month.”

He shrugs, “All right, I’ll give you a month. It didn’t take you a month to learn to listen to him.”

“Oh for cryin’ out loud, Daniel, this is ridiculous. I’m arguing with a you, that for all practical purposes, doesn’t exist anymore. And if you don’t want to be big again, correct me if I’m wrong, I’m guessing you won’t be.”

“If you’re thinking I have some magic secret I’m withholding from you guys to turn me back into an adult, guess again. ‘Cause I don’t.”

“All right, all right, let’s not argue, period. Think, Daniel. Do you know what happened that day?”

“Uh, Jack, I think he’s losing . . .” Daniel becomes more insubstantial than the grave stone for a moment, then once again coalesces. “So anyway, thank you.”

We’re back to ‘this’ and there’s obviously not much time. “Yeah, about that – thank you for ‘this’?”

He doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “It’s different. Maybe as adults we’ve spent so long convincing ourselves what we don’t need, we sometimes miss it . . . you know? You guys all did it to me before, I just didn’t recognize it. There was lots of, ‘Daniel, put that damn artifact away, it’s time to play; or Daniel, it’s time to eat; and Daniel, go to bed.’ More commands, less hugs and kisses, but I understand now they’re both the same thing.”

I squeeze my eyes shut on a sigh. Why is it we have to learn everything the hard way? 

“We need you back the way you were, D.J.”

“I’ll try to let you know if I run across anything,” he says, glancing again at little Daniel. “Think I’m . . .” he fades to a wisp of a shadow, but I’ve had lots of practice lip reading in our line of work. “Going now,” he says, lifting a hand. “See ya.”

For a minute I just stand, head hanging down, breathing deeply. And then a small hand slides into mine.

“Jack?”

“Yes, Daniel?” One more deep breath and I’m able to look at him again.

“Does coming here make you sad?”

“Yes. And no.”

He looks up at me, waiting. No doubt for an explanation, but I don’t have one.

“You ready to go?” I ask, turning us both in the direction of the path and starting back without waiting for an answer.

“Okay,” Daniel follows. He has no choice, I’m still holding his hand, but he tugs me to a standstill before we reach the path. “Jack?”

“What, Daniel?”

“Do you think Charlie would mind if I borrowed this?” He holds up the glove.

I don’t have to take it to see it’s been restored to mint condition, but I reach for it anyway and slide my hand inside. It’s a bit of a squeeze, Charlie’s hands were still much smaller than mine, but the glove over my palm is supple, resilient again. 

“Did you do this, Daniel?” I don’t know if I’m asking big Daniel or little Daniel.

“No. He did.” Daniel glances over his shoulder.

My gaze follows automatically. “Then, why don’t you ask him yourself?” 

A young man just on the cusp of adulthood stands beside Charlie’s gravestone. He lifts a hand, smiles, and gives us a wink and a thumbs-up.

My kid’s grown up? I have to admit that thought never occurred to me. I blink hard. The image is slightly fuzzy, as though someone has applied a soft focus filter to a camera lens.

“I’ll bring it back when I’m done with it, Charlie,” Daniel promises.

The smile widens briefly and he nods, then turns and walks away.

When I open my eyes again every tree and bush in the park seems to be covered with winking, blinking fireflies, lighting the gentle darkness spread like a warm blanket over the cemetery.

Neither of us have anything to say as Daniel and I walk slowly, hand in hand, back to the car. 

Really, there is nothing to say. It’s pretty much all been said tonight.

 

~*~

_Disclairmer: Thus has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The Stargate characters, settings and universe are the property of Kawoosh Productions, Showtime/Viacom, Sony/MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._


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